Sometimes we would discuss the respective merits ofthe various qualities of marble， numerous slabs of whichwere resting against the walls of the shop， or sometimesan hour or two would pass quietly without a word oneither side while I watched how neatly his chisel struckout letter after letter of the names of the Nortons， theMayhews， the Luces， the Daggets， and other immemorialfamilies of the Vineyard. Often with an artist’s pride thegood old sculptor would speak of favorite productionsof his skill which were scattered throughout the villagegraveyards of New England. But my chief and mostinstructive amusement was to witness his interviewswith his customers， who held interminable consultationsabout the form and fashion of the desired monuments，the buried excellence to be commemorated， the anguishto be expressed， and finally the lowest price in dollarsand cents for which a marble transcript of their feelingsmight be obtained. Really， my mind received many freshideas which perhaps may remain in it even longer thanMr. Wigglesworth’s hardest marble will retain the deepeststrokes of his chisel.
An elderly lady came to bespeak a monument for herfirst love， who had been killed by a whale in the PacificOcean no less than forty years before. It was singularthat so strong an impression of early feeling should havesurvived through the changes of her subsequent life， inthe course of which she had been a wife and a mother，and， so far as I could judge， a comfortable and happywoman. Reflecting within myself， it appeared to me thatthis lifelong sorrow—as， in all good faith， she deemedit—was one of the most fortunate circumstances of herhistory. It had given an ideality to her mind； it had kepther purer and less earthy than she would otherwise havebeen by drawing a portion of her sympathies apart fromearth. Amid the throng of enjoyments and the pressure ofworldly care and all the warm materialism of this life shehad communed with a vision， and had been the better forsuch intercourse. Faithful to the husband of her maturity，and loving him with a far more real affection than she evercould have felt for this dream of her girlhood， there hadstill been an imaginative faith to the ocean-buried； so thatan ordinary character had thus been elevated and refined.
Her sighs had been the breath of Heaven to her soul. Thegood lady earnestly desired that the proposed monumentshould be ornamented with a carved border of marineplants interwined with twisted sea-shells， such as wereprobably waving over her lovet’s skeleton or strewn aroundit in the far depths of the Pacific. But， Mr. Wigglesworth’schisel being inadequate to the task， she was forced tocontent herself with a rose hanging its head from a brokenstem. After her departure I remarked that the symbol wasnone of the most apt.
“And yet，” said my friend the sculptor， embodying in thisimage the thoughts that had been passing through my ownmind， “that broken rose has shed its sweet smell throughforty years of the good woman’s life.”
It was seldom that I could find such pleasant food forcontemplation as in the above instance. None of theapplicants， I think， affected me more disagreeably thanan old man who came， with his fourth wife hanging onhis arm， to bespeak gravestones for the three formeroccupants of his marriage-bed. I watched with someanxiety to see whether his remembrance of either weremore affectionate than of the other two， but coulddiscover no symptom of the kind. The three monumentswere all to be of the same material and form， and eachdecorated in bas-relief with two weeping willows， one ofthese sympathetic trees bending over its fellow， which wasto be broken in the midst and rest upon a sepulchral urn.
This， indeed， was Mr. Wigglesworth’s standing emblem ofconjugal bereavement. I shuddered at the gray polygamistwho had so utterly lost the holy sense of individuality inwedlock that methought he was fain to reckon upon hisfingers how many women who had once slept by his sidewere now sleeping in their graves. There was even—if Iwrong him， it is no great matter—a glance sidelong at hisliving spouse， as if he were inclined to drive a thriftierbargain by bespeaking four gravestones in a lot.
I was better pleased with a rough old whaling-captainwho gave directions for a broad marble slab dividedinto two compartments， one of which was to containan epitaph on his deceased wife and the other to be leftvacant till death should engrave his own name there.
As is frequently the case among the whalers of Martha’sVineyard， so much of this storm-beaten widower’s lifehad been tossed away on distant seas that out of twentyyears of matrimony he had spent scarce three， and thoseat scattered intervals， beneath his own roof. Thus the wifeof his youth， though she died in his and her declining age，retained the bridal dewdrops fresh around her memory.
My observations gave me the idea， and Mr. Wigglesworthconfirmed it， that husbands were more faithful in settingup memorials to their dead wives than widows to theirdead husbands. I was not ill-natured enough to fancy thatwomen less than men feel so sure of their own constancyas to be willing to give a pledge of it in marble. It is moreprobably the fact that， while men are able to reflectupon their lost companions as remembrances apart fromthemselves， women， on the other hand， are consciousthat a portion of their being has gone with the departedwhithersoever he has gone. Soul clings to soul， the livingdust has a sympathy with the dust of the grave； and bythe very strength of that sympathy the wife of the deadshrinks the more sensitively from reminding the world ofits existence. The link is already strong enough； it needsno visible symbol. And， though a shadow walks ever byher side and the touch of a chill hand is on her bosom， yetlife， and perchance its natural yearnings， may still be warmwithin her and inspire her with new hopes of happiness.