again, these bitter foes may find themselves dear friends.
Methinks what they mistook for hatred was but love under a mask."

A gentleman of antiquarian propensities provided a memorial for an
Indian of Chabbiquidick--one of the few of untainted blood remaining
in that region, and said to be a hereditary chieftain descended from
the sachem who welcomed Governor Mayhew to the Vineyard. Mr.
Wiggles-worth exerted his best skill to carve a broken bow and
scattered sheaf of arrows in memory of the hunters and warriors whose
race was ended here, but he likewise sculptured a cherub, to denote
that the poor Indian had shared the Christian's hope of immortality.

"Why," observed I, taking a perverse view of the winged boy and the
bow and arrows, "it looks more like Cupid's tomb than an Indian
chief's."

"You talk nonsense," said the sculptor, with the offended pride of
art. He then added with his usual good-nature, "How can Cupid die when
there are such pretty maidens in the Vineyard?"

"Very true," answered I; and for the rest of the day I thought of
other matters than tombstones.

At our next meeting I found him chiselling an open book upon a marble
headstone, and concluded that it was meant to express the erudition of
some black-letter clergyman of the Cotton Mather school. It turned
out, however, to be emblematical of the scriptural knowledge of an old
woman who had never read anything but her Bible, and the monument was
a tribute to her piety and good works from the orthodox church of
which she had been a member. In strange contrast with this Christian
woman's memorial was that of an infidel whose gravestone, by his own
direction, bore an avowal of his belief that the spirit within him
would be extinguished like a flame, and that the nothingness whence he
sprang would receive him again.

Mr. Wigglesworth consulted me as to the propriety of enabling a dead
man's dust to utter this dreadful creed.

"If I thought," said he, "that a single mortal would read the
inscription without a shudder, my chisel should never cut 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 infidel may strive
to preach blasphemies from his grave, but it will be only another
method of impressing the soul with a consciousness of immortality."

There was an old man by the name of Norton, noted throughout the
island for his grea