---

One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat

at the door of their cottage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had but to lift

their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles away, with the sunshine

brightening all its features.

And what was the Great Stone Face?

Embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, there was a valley so spacious

that it contained many thousand inhabitants. Some of these good people dwelt

in log huts, with the black forest all around them, on the steep and challenging

hillsides.

Others had their homes in comfortable farmhouses and cultivated the rich soil

on the gentle slopes or level surfaces of the valley. Others, again, were congregated

into populous villages, where some wild, highland rivulet tumbling down from

its birthplace in the upper mountain region had been caught and tamed by human

cunning and compelled to turn the machinery of cotton factories.

The inhabitants of this valley, in short, were numerous and of many modes of life.

But all of them, grown people and children, had a kind of familiarity with the Great

Stone Face, although some possessed the gift of distinguishing this grand natural

phenomenon more perfectly than many of their neighbors.

The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her mood of majestic playfulness,

formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain by some immense rocks, which had

been thrown together in such a position as, when viewed at a proper distance,

precisely to resemble the features of the human countenance. It seemed as if

an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculptured his own likeness on the precipice.

There was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet in height; the nose,

with its long bridge; and the vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would have

rolled their thunder accents from one end of the valley to the other. True it is, that if

the spectator approached too near; he lost the outline of the gigantic visage and could

discern only a heap of ponderous and gigantic rocks piled in chaotic ruin one upon

another.

Retracing his steps, however, the wondrous features would again be seen;

and the farther he withdrew from them, the more like a human face, with all its original

divinity intact, did they appear; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with the clouds

and glorified vapor of the mountains clustering about it, the Great Stone Face seemed

positive to be alive.

It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the Great

Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features, was noble, and the expression was

at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warm heart that embraced

all mankind in its affections and had room for more.

It was an education only to look at it. According to the belief of many people, the valley

owed much of its fertility to this benign aspect that was continually beaming over it,

illuminating the clouds and infusing their tenderness into the sunshine.

As we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at their cottage door, gazing

at the Great Stone Face and talking about it. The child’s name was Ernest.

“Mother,” said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, “I wish that it could speak,
for it looks so very kindly that its voice must need to be pleasant. If I were to see a man with such a face, I should love him dearly.”

“If an old prophecy should come to pass,” answered his mother, “we may see a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as that.”

“What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?” eagerly inquired Ernest. “Pray to tell me about it!”

So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her when she herself

was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things that were past, but of what was

yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old, that even the Indians, who formerly

inhabited this valley, had heard it from their forefathers, to whom, as they affirmed,

it had been murmured by the mountain streams, and whispered by the wind among

the tree-tops. The purport was that, at some future day, a child should be born

hereabouts, who was destined to become the greatest and noblest personage

of his time, and whose countenance, in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance

to the Great Stone Face. Not a few old-fashioned people, and young ones likewise,

in the ardor of their hopes, still cherished an enduring faith in this old prophecy.

But others, who had seen more of the world, had watched and waited till they were

weary and had beheld no man with such a face, nor any man that proved to be much

greater or nobler than his neighbors, concluded it to be nothing but an idle tale.

At all events, the great man of the prophecy had not yet appeared.

“O mother, dear mother!” cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his head, 
“I do hope that I shall live to see him!”

His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman and felt that it was wisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy. So she only said to him, “Perhaps you may.”

And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. It was always in his mind

whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He spent his childhood in the log

cottage where he was born and was dutiful to his mother and helpful to her in many

things, assisting her much with his little hands and more with his loving heart.

In this manner, from a happy yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a mild, quiet,

unobtrusive boy and sun-browned with labor in the fields but with more intelligence

brightening his aspect than is seen in many lads who have been taught at famous

schools.

Yet Ernest had had no teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him.

When the toil of the day was over, he would gaze at it for hours until he began

to imagine that those vast features recognized him and gave him a smile of kindness

and encouragement, responsive to his own look of veneration. We must not take it

upon ourselves to affirm that this was a mistake, although the Face may have looked

no more kindly at Ernest than at all the world besides.

But the secret was that the boy’s tender and confiding simplicity discerned what other

people could not see, and thus the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar

portion.

About this time, there went a rumor throughout the valley that the great man,

foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance to the Great Stone Face,

had appeared at last. It seems that many years before, a young man had migrated

from the valley and settled at a distant seaport, where, after getting together a little

money, he had set up as a shopkeeper. His name–but I could never learn whether

it was his real one or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and success

in life–was Gathergold.

Being shrewd and active and endowed by Providence with that inscrutable faculty

that develops itself in what the world calls luck; he became an exceedingly rich

merchant and owner of a whole fleet of bulky-bottomed ships.

All the countries of the globe appeared to join hands for the mere purpose of adding

heap after heap to the mountainous accumulation of this one man’s wealth. The cold

regions of the north, almost within the gloom and shadow of the Arctic Circle, sent him

their tribute in the shape of furs; hot Africa sifted for him the golden sands of her rivers

and gathered up the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of the forests; the East

came bringing him the rich shawls, spices, and teas, and the effulgence

of diamonds and the gleaming purity of large pearls.

The ocean, not to be behindhand with the earth, yielded up her mighty whales that

Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil and make a profit from it. Be the original commodity

what it might, it was gold within his grasp. It might be said of him, as of Midas

in the fable, that whatever he touched with his finger immediately glistened, grew

yellow, and was changed at once into sterling metal or, which suited him still better,

into piles of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold had become so very rich that it would

have taken him a hundred years only to count his wealth, he bethought himself

of his native valley and resolved to go back thither and end his days where

he was born. With this purpose in view, he sent a skillful architect to build him

such a palace as should be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in.

As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that Mr. Gathergold

had turned out to be the prophetic personage so long and vainly looked for and that

his visage was the perfect and undeniable similitude of the Great Stone Face.

People were more ready to believe that this must need to be the fact when they

beheld the splendid edifice that rose, as if by enchantment, on the site of his father’s

old weatherbeaten farmhouse. The exterior was of marble, so dazzlingly white that

it seemed as though the whole structure might melt away in the sunshine, like those

humbler ones which Mr. Gathergold, in his young play days, before his fingers were

gifted with the touch of transmutation, had been accustomed to the build of snow.

It had a richly ornamented portico supported by tall pillars, beneath which was a lofty

door, studded with silver knobs and made of a kind of variegated wood that had been

brought from beyond the sea. The windows, from the floor to the ceiling of each stately

apartment was composed, respectively, of but one enormous pane of glass,

so transparently pure that it was said to be a finer medium than even the vacant

atmosphere.

Hardly anybody had been permitted to see the interior of this palace, but it was

reported, and with a good semblance of truth, to be far more gorgeous than 

the outside,

insomuch that whatever was iron or brass in other houses was silver or gold in this;

and Mr. Gathergold’s bed chamber, especially, made such a glittering appearance

that no ordinary man would have been able to close his eyes there. But, on the other

hand, Mr. Gathergold was now so inured to wealth that perhaps he could not have

closed his eyes unless where the gleam of it was certain to find its way beneath

his eyelids.

In due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers, with magnificent

furniture; then, a whole troop of black and white servants, the harbingers

of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic person, was expected to arrive at sunset.

Our friend Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the idea that the great man,

the nobleman, the man of prophecy, after so many ages of delay, was at length to be

made manifest in his native valley. He knew, boy as he was, that there were a thousand

ways in which Mr. Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might transform himself

into an angel of beneficence and assume control over human affairs as wide

and benignant as the smile of the Great Stone Face. Full of faith and hope, Ernest

doubted not that what the people said was true and that now he was to behold

the living likeness of those wondrous features on the mountainside.

While the boy was still gazing up the valley and fancying, as he always did,

that the Great Stone Face returned his gaze and looked kindly at him, the rumbling

of wheels was heard, approaching swiftly along the winding road.

“Here he comes!” cried a group of people who were assembled to witness the arrival. “Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!”

A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road. Within it,

thrust partly out of the window, appeared the physiognomy of the old man, with a skin

as yellow as if his own Midas hand had transmuted it. He had a low forehead, a small,

sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and very thin lips, which

he made still thinner by pressing them forcibly together.

“The very image of the Great Stone Face!” shouted the people. “Sure enough, the old prophecy is true; and here we have the great man come, at last!”

And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe that here was

the likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside, there chanced to be

an old beggar-woman and two little beggar-children, stragglers from some far-off

region, who, as the carriage rolled onward, held out their hands and lifted up

their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching charity. A yellow claw–the very same

that had clawed together so much wealth–poked itself out of the coach window

and dropped some copper coins upon the ground; so that, though the great man’s 

name seems to have been Gathergold, he might just as suitably have been nicknamed

Scattercopper. Still, nevertheless, with an earnest shout and evidently with as much

good faith as ever, the people bellowed, “He is the very image of the Great Stone Face!”

But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that sordid visage

and gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist gilded by the last sunbeams,

he could still distinguish those glorious features which had impressed themselves

into his soul. Their aspect cheered him. What did the benign lips seem to say?

“He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come!”

The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. He had grown to be a young man

now. He attracted little notice from the other inhabitants of the valley; for they saw

nothing remarkable in his way of life save that, when the labor of the day was over,

he still loved to go apart and gaze and meditate upon the Great Stone Face.

According to their idea of the matter, it was a folly, indeed, but pardonable, inasmuch

as Ernest was industrious, kind, and neighborly and neglected no duty for the sake

of indulging this idle habit. They knew not that the Great Stone Face had become

a teacher to him and that the sentiment which was expressed in it would enlarge

the young man’s heart and fill it with wider and deeper sympathies than other hearts.

They knew not that thence would come to a better wisdom than could be learned

from books, and a better life than could be molded on the defaced example of other

human lives. Neither did Ernest know that the thoughts and affections which came

to him so naturally, in the fields and at the fireside and wherever he communed

with himself, were of a higher tone than those which all men shared with him.

A simple soul–simple as when his mother first taught him the old prophecy–he beheld

the marvelous features beaming adown the valley and still wondered that their human

counterpart was so long in making his appearance.

By this time, poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and buried. The oddest part of the matter

was that his wealth, which was the body and spirit of his existence, had disappeared

before his death, leaving nothing of him but a living skeleton covered over with

wrinkled yellow skin. Since the melting away of his gold, it had been very generally

conceded that there was no such striking resemblance, after all, betwixt the ignoble

features of the ruined merchant and that majestic face upon the mountainside.

So the people ceased to honor him during his lifetime and quietly consigned

him to forgetfulness after his decease. Once in a while, it is true, his memory

was brought up in connection with the magnificent palace which he had built

and which had long ago been turned into a hotel for the accommodation of strangers,

multitudes of whom came, every summer, to visit that famous natural curiosity,

the Great Stone Face. Thus, Mr. Gathergold being discredited and thrown

into the shade, the man of prophecy, was yet to come.

It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years before, had enlisted

as a soldier and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had now become an illustrious

commander. Whatever he may be called in history, he was known in camps

and on the battlefield under the nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder.

This war-worn veteran is now infirm with age and wounds and weary of the turmoil

of military life and of the roll of the drum and the clangor of the trumpet that had

so long been ringing in his ears, had lately signified a purpose of returning to his native

valley, hoping to find repose where he remembered to have left it. The inhabitants,

his old neighbors and their grown-up children were resolved to welcome the renowned

warrior with a salute of cannon and a public dinner, and all the more enthusiastically,

it being affirmed that now, at last, the likeness of the Great Stone Face had actually

appeared. An aid-de-camp of Old Blood-and-Thunder, traveling through the valley,

was said to have been struck with the resemblance. Moreover, the schoolmates

and early acquaintances of the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, to the best

of their recollection, the aforesaid general had been exceedingly like the majestic

image, even when a boy, only the idea had never occurred to them at that period.

Great, therefore, was the excitement throughout the valley, and many people, who had

never once thought of glancing at the Great Stone Face for years before, now spent

their time gazing at it for the sake of knowing exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder

looked.

On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with all the other people of the valley, left their

work and proceeded to the spot where the Sylvan banquet was prepared.

As he approached, the loud voice of the Rev. Dr. Battleblast was heard, beseeching

a blessing on the good things set before them and on the distinguished friend of peace

in whose honor they were assembled. The tables were arranged in a cleared space

of the woods, shut in by the surrounding trees, except where a vista opened eastward

and afforded a distant view of the Great Stone Face. Over the general’s chair,

which was a relic from the home of Washington; there was an arch of verdant boughs,

with the laurel profusely intermixed and surmounted by his country’s banner, beneath

which he had won victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on his tiptoes in hopes

of getting a glimpse of the celebrated guest, but there was a mighty crowd about

the tables, anxious to hear the toasts and speeches and to catch any word that might

fall from the general in reply, and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard,

pricked ruthlessly with their bayonets at any particularly quiet person among

the throng. So Ernest, being of an unobtrusive character, was thrust quite into

the background, where he could see no more of Old Blood-and-Thunder’s physiognomy

than if it had been still blazing on the battlefield. To console himself, he turned

towards the Great Stone Face, which, like a faithful and long-remembered friend,

looked back and smiled upon him through the vista of the forest. Meantime, however,

he could overhear the remarks of various individuals who were comparing the features

of the hero with the face on the distant mountainside.

” ‘Tis the same face, to a hair!” cried one man, cutting a caper for joy.

“Wonderfully like, that’s a fact!” responded another.

“Like! Why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder himself, in a monstrous-looking glass!” cried a third. “And why not? He’s the greatest man of this or any other age, beyond a doubt.”

And then all three of the speakers gave a great shout, which communicated

electricity to the crowd and called forth a roar from a thousand voices that went

reverberating for miles among the mountains until you might have supposed that

the Great Stone Face had poured its thunder breath into the cry. All these comments,

and this vast enthusiasm served the more to interest our friend; nor did he think

of questioning that now, at length, the mountain visage had found its human

counterpart. It is true Ernest had imagined that this long-looked-for personage would

appear in the character of a man of peace, uttering wisdom, doing good, and making

people happy. But, taking a habitual breadth of view, with all his simplicity,

he contended that Providence should choose its own method of blessing mankind

and could conceive that this great end might be affected even by a warrior

and a bloody sword, should inscrutable wisdom see fit to order matters so.

“The general! The general!” was now the cry. “Hush! Silence! Old Blood-and-Thunder’s going to make a speech.”

Even so, for the cloth being removed, the general’s health had been drunk amid shouts

of applause, and he now stood upon his feet to thank the company. Ernest saw him.

There he was, over the shoulders of the crowd, from the two glittering epaulets

and embroidered collar upward, beneath the arch of green boughs with intertwined

laurel, and the banner drooping as if to shade his brow! And there, too,

visible in the same glance through the vista of the forest, appeared the Great Stone

Face! And was there, indeed, such a resemblance as the crowd had testified?

Alas, Ernest could not recognize it! He beheld a war-worn and weatherbeaten

countenance, full of energy and expressive of an iron will; but the gentle wisdom,

the deep, broad, tender sympathies were altogether wanting in Old

Blood-and-Thunder’s visage, and even if the Great Stone Face had assumed his look

of stern command, the milder traits would still have tempered it.

“This is not the man of prophecy,” sighed Ernest to himself as he made his way out

of the throng. “And must the world wait longer yet?”

The mists had congregated about the distant mountainside, and there were seen

the grand and awful features of the Great Stone Face, awful but benignant

as if a mighty angel were sitting among the hills and enrobing himself

in a cloud-vesture of gold and purple. As he looked, Ernest could hardly believe

but that a smile beamed over the whole visage, with a radiance still brightening,

although without motion of the lips. It was probably the effect of the western sunshine,

melting through the thinly diffused vapors that had swept between him and the object

he gazed at. But–as it always did–the aspect of his marvelous friend made Ernest

as hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain.

“Fear not, Ernest,” said his heart, even as if the Great Face were whispering to him–fear not, Ernest; he will come.”

More years sped swiftly and tranquility away. Ernest still dwelt in his native valley

and was now a man of middle age. By imperceptible degrees, he had become known

among the people. Now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread and was the same

simple-hearted man he had always been. But he had thought and felt so much; he had given so many of the best hours of his life to unworldly hopes for some great

good to mankind; it seemed as though he had been talking with the angels

and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom unawares. It was visible in the calm

and well-considered beneficence of his daily life, the quiet stream of which had made

a wide green margin all along its course. Not a day passed by that the world was not

better because this man, humble as he was, had lived. He never stepped aside

from his own path, yet would always reach a blessing to his neighbor.

Almost involuntarily, too, he had become a preacher. The pure and high simplicity

of his thought, which, as one of its manifestations, took shape in the good deeds

that dropped silently from his hand, flowed also forth in speech. He uttered truths that

wrought upon and molded the lives of those who heard him. His auditors, it may be,

never suspected that Ernest, their own neighbor, and familiar friend, was more

than an ordinary man; least of all did Ernest himself suspect it; but, inevitably,

as the murmur of a rivulet came thoughts out of his mouth that no other human

lips had spoken.

When the people’s minds had had a little time to cool, they were ready enough

to acknowledge their mistake in imagining a similarity between General

Blood-and-Thunder’s truculent physiognomy and the benign visage

on the mountainside. But now, again, there were reports and many paragraphs

in the newspapers, affirming that the likeness of the Great Stone Face had appeared

upon the broad shoulders of a certain eminent statesman.

He, like Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a native of the valley

but had left it in his early days and taken up the trades of law and politics.

Instead of the rich man’s wealth and the warrior’s sword, he had but a tongue,

and it was mightier than both together. So wonderfully eloquent was he that whatever

he might choose to say, his auditors had no choice but to believe him; wrong looked

like right, and right like wrong; for when it pleased him, he could make a kind

of illuminated fog with his mere breath, and obscure the natural daylight with it.

His tongue, indeed, was a magic instrument: sometimes it rumbled like the thunder;

sometimes it warbled like the sweetest music. It was the blast of war, the song

of peace, and it seemed to have a heart in it when there was no such matter.

In good truth, he was a wondrous man; and when his tongue had acquired him all other

imaginable success,–when it had been heard in halls of state, and in the courts

of princes and potentates–after it had made him known all over the world, even

as a voice crying from shore to shore,–it finally persuaded his countrymen to select

him for the Presidency. Before this time–indeed, as soon as he began to grow

celebrated–his admirers had found out the resemblance between him and the Great

Stone Face; and so much were they struck by it that throughout the country,

this distinguished gentleman was known by the name of Old Stony Phiz. The phrase

was considered as giving a highly favorable aspect to his political prospects; for,

as is likewise the case with the Popedom, nobody ever becomes President without

taking a name other than his own.

While his friends were doing their best to make him President, Old Stony Phiz,

as he was called, set out on a visit to the valley where he was born. Of course, he had

no other object than to shake hands with his fellow citizens and neither thought

nor cared about any effect that his progress through the country might have upon

the election. Magnificent preparations were made to receive the illustrious statesman;

a cavalcade of horsemen set forth to meet him at the boundary line of the State,

and all the people left their business and gathered along the wayside to see him pass.

Among these was Ernest. Though more than once disappointed, as we have seen,

he had such a hopeful and confiding nature that he was always ready to believe

in whatever seemed beautiful and good. He kept his heart continually open

and thus was sure to catch the blessing from on high when it should come.

So now again, as buoyantly as ever, he went forth to behold the likeness of the Great

Stone Face.

The cavalcade came prancing along the road with a great clattering of hoofs

and a mighty cloud of dust, which rose up so dense and high that the visage

of the mountainside was completely hidden from Ernest’s eyes. All the great men

of the neighborhood were there on horseback; militia officers, in uniform; the member

of Congress; the sheriff of the county; the editors of newspapers; and many a farmer,

too, had mounted his patient steed, with his Sunday coat upon his back. It really was

a very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were numerous banners flaunting over

the cavalcade, some of which were gorgeous portraits of the illustrious statesman

and the Great Stone Face, smiling familiarly at one another like two brothers.

If the pictures were to be trusted, the mutual resemblance must be confessed,

was marvelous. We must not forget to mention that there was a band of music

that made the echoes of the mountains ring and reverberated with the loud triumph

of its strains so that an airy and soul-thrilling melody broke out among all the heights

and hollows as if every nook of his native valley had found a voice, to welcome

the distinguished guest. But the grandest effect was when the far-off mountain

precipice flung back the music, for then the Great Stone Face itself seemed

to be swelling the triumphant chorus in acknowledgment that, at length, the man

of prophecy was come.

All this while, the people were throwing up their hats and shouting with enthusiasm

so contagious that the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he likewise threw up his hat

and shouted, as loudly as the loudest, “Huzza for the great man! Huzza for Old Stony

Phiz!” But as yet, he had not seen him.

“Here he is, now!” cried those who stood near Ernest. “There! There! Look at Old Stony

Phiz and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see if they are not as like as two

twin brothers!”

In the midst of all this gallant array came an open barouche, drawn by four white

horses, and in the barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat the illustrious

statesman, Old Stony Phiz himself.

“Confess it,” said one of Ernest’s neighbors to him, “the Great Stone Face has met its match at last!”

Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the countenance which was bowing

and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did fancy that there was a resemblance

between it and the old familiar face upon the mountainside. The brow, with its

massive depth and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, were boldly

and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more than heroic Titanic model.

But the sublimity and stateliness, the grand expression of a divine sympathy,

that illuminated the mountain visage and etherealized its ponderous granite substance

into spirit, might here be sought in vain. Something had been originally left out or had

departed. And therefore, the marvelously gifted statesman had always a weary gloom

in the deep caverns of his eyes, as of a child that has outgrown its playthings or a man

of mighty faculties and little aims, whose life, with all its high performances,

was vague and empty, because no high purpose had endowed it with reality.

Still, Ernest’s neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side and pressing him

for an answer.

“Confess! Confess! Is not he the very picture of your Old Man of the Mountain?”

“No!” said Ernest bluntly, “I see little or no likeness.”

“Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face!” answered his neighbor; and again he set up a shout for Old Stony Phiz.

But Ernest turned away, melancholy and almost despondent: for this was the saddest

of his disappointments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled the prophecy

and had not willed to do so. Meantime, the cavalcade, the banners, the music,

and the barouches swept past him, with the vociferous crowd in the rear, leaving

the dust to settle down, and the Great Stone Face being revealed again,

with the grandeur that it had worn for untold centuries.

“Lo, here I am, Ernest!” the benign lips seemed to say. “I have waited longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the man will come.”

The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another’s heels. And now

they began to bring white hairs and scatter them over their head of Ernest; they made

reverend wrinkles across his forehead and furrows in his cheeks. He was an aged

man. But not in vain had he grown old: more than the white hairs on his head were

the sage thoughts in his mind; his wrinkles and furrows were inscriptions that Time

had graved, and in which he had written legends of wisdom that had been tested

by the tenor of a life. And Ernest had ceased to be obscure. Unsought for, undesired,

had come to the fame that so many seek and made him known in the great world,

beyond the limits of the valley in which he had dwelt so quietly. College professors,

and even the active men of cities, came from far to see and converse with Ernest;

for the report had gone abroad that this simple husbandman had ideas unlike those

of other men, not gained from books, but of a higher tone–a tranquil and familiar

majesty as if he had been talking with the angels as his daily friends. Whether it was

sage, statesman, or philanthropist, Ernest received these visitors with the gentle

sincerity that had characterized him from boyhood and spoke freely with them

of whatever came uppermost or lay deepest in his heart or their own. While they talked

together, his face would kindle, unawares, and shine upon them as with mild evening

light. Pensive with the fulness of such discourse, his guests took leave and went their

way; and, passing up the valley, paused to look at the Great Stone Face, imagining that

they had seen its likeness in a human countenance but could not remember where.

While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful Providence had granted

a new poet to this earth. He, likewise, was a native of the valley but had spent

the greater part of his life at a distance from that romantic region, pouring out his

sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. Often, however, did the mountains,

which had been familiar to him in his childhood, lift their snowy peaks into the clear

atmosphere of his poetry. Neither was the Great Stone Face forgotten, for the poet

had celebrated it in an ode, which was grand enough to have been uttered by its own

majestic lips. This man of genius, we may say, had come down from heaven with

wonderful endowments. If he sang of a mountain, the eyes of all mankind beheld

a mightier grandeur reposing on its breast or soaring to its summit than had before

been seen there. If his theme were a lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown

over it, to gleam forever on its surface. If it were the vast old sea, even the deep

immensity of its dread bosom seemed to swell higher as if moved by the emotions

of the song. Thus the world assumed another and a better aspect from the hour that

the poet blessed it with his happy eyes. The Creator had bestowed him as the last best

touch to his own handiwork. Creation was not finished till the poet came to interpret,

and so complete it.

The effect was no less high and beautiful when his human brethren were the subject

of his verse. The man or woman, sordid with the common dust of life, who crossed

his daily path, and the little child who played in it, were glorified if he beheld them

in his mood of poetic faith. He showed the golden links of the great chain

that intertwined them with an angelic kindred; he brought out the hidden traits

of a celestial birth that made them worthy of such kin. Some, indeed, there were,

who thought to show the soundness of their judgment by affirming that all the beauty

and dignity of the natural world existed only in the poet’s fancy. Let such men speak

for themselves, who undoubtedly appear to have been spawned forth by Nature with

a contemptuous bitterness; she having plastered them up out of her refuse stuff after

all the swine were made. With respect to all things else, the poet’s ideal was the truest

truth.

The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read them after his customary toil,

seated on the bench before his cottage door, where for such a length of time, he had

filled his repose with thought by gazing at the Great Stone Face. And now, as he read

stanzas that caused the soul to thrill within him, he lifted his eyes to the vast

countenance beaming on him so benignantly.

“O majestic friend,” he murmured, addressing the Great Stone Face, “is not this man worthy to resemble thee?”

The Face seemed to smile but answered not a word.

Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not only heard

of Ernest but had meditated much upon his character until he deemed nothing

so desirable as to meet this man, whose untaught wisdom walked hand in hand

with the noble simplicity of his life. One summer morning, therefore, he took passage

by the railroad and, in the decline of the afternoon, alighted from the cars at no great

distance from Ernest’s cottage. The great hotel, which had formerly been the palace

of Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand, but the poet, with his carpet bag on his arm,

inquired at once where Ernest dwelt and was resolved to be accepted as his guest.

Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding a volume in his hand,

which alternately he read, and then, with a finger between the leaves, looked lovingly

at the Great Stone Face.

“Good evening,” said the poet. “Can you give a traveler a night’s lodging?”

“Willingly,” answered Ernest; and then he added, smiling, “Methinks I never saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger.”

The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked together.

Often had the poet held intercourse with the wittiest and the wisest, but never before

with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and feelings gushed up with such a natural

freedom and who made great truths so familiar by his simple utterance of them.

Angels, as had been so often saying, seemed to have wrought with him at his labor

in the fields; angels seemed to have sat with him by the fireside and, dwelling with

angels as friends with friends, he had imbibed the sublimity of their ideas and imbued

it with the sweet and lowly charm of household words. So thought the poet.

And Ernest, on the other hand, was moved and agitated by the living images which

the poet flung out of his mind and which peopled all the air about the cottage door

with shapes of beauty, both gay and pensive. The sympathies of these two men

instructed them with a profound sense that either could have attained alone.

Their minds accorded into one strain and made delightful music which neither

of them could have claimed as all his own nor distinguished his own share from

the others. They led one another, as it were, into a high pavilion of their thoughts,

so remote and hitherto so dim that they had never entered it before and so beautiful

that they desired to be there always.

As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great Stone Face was bending

forward to listen too. He gazed earnestly into the poet’s glowing eyes.

“Who are you, my strangely gifted guest?” he said.

The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest had been reading.

“You have read these poems,” said he. “You know me, then–for I wrote them.”

Again, and still, more earnestly than before, Ernest examined the poet’s features;

then turned towards the Great Stone Face; then back, with an uncertain aspect,

to his guest. But his countenance fell; he shook his head and sighed.

“Wherefore are you sad?” inquired the poet.

“Because,” replied Ernest, “all through life, I have awaited the fulfillment of a prophecy, and when I read these poems, I hoped that it might be fulfilled in you.”

“You hoped,” answered the poet, faintly smiling, “to find in me the likeness of the Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as formerly with Mr. Gathergold, Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. Yes, Ernest, it is my doom. You must add my name to the illustrious three and record another failure of your hopes. For–in shame and sadness do I speak it, Ernest–I am not worthy to be typified by yonder benign and majestic image.”

“And why?” asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. “Are not those thoughts divine?”

“They have a strain of the Divinity,” replied the poet. “You can hear in them the far-off echo of a heavenly song. But my life, dear Ernest, has not corresponded with my thought. I have had grand dreams, but they have been only dreams because I have lived–and that, too, by my own choice–among poor and mean realities. Sometimes even–shall I dare to say it?–I lack faith in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness, which my own words are said to have made more evident in nature and in human life. Why, then, pure seeker of the good and true, shouldst thou hope to find me, in yonder image of the divine?”

The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. So, likewise, were those 

of Ernest.

At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, Ernest was to discourse

to an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the open air. He and the poet,

arm in arm, still talking together as they went along, proceeded to the spot. It was

a small nook among the hills, with a gray precipice behind, the stern front of which was

relieved by the pleasant foliage of many creeping plants that made a tapestry

for the naked rock by hanging their festoons from all its rugged angles. At a small

elevation above the ground, set in a rich framework of verdure, there appeared a niche,

spacious enough to admit a human figure, with freedom for such gestures

as spontaneously accompany earnest thought and genuine emotion.

Into this natural pulpit, Ernest ascended and threw a look of familiar kindness around

upon his audience. They stood or sat, or reclined upon the grass, as seemed good

to each, with the departing sunshine falling obliquely over them and mingling its

subdued cheerfulness with the solemnity of a grove of ancient trees beneath

and amid the boughs of which the golden rays were constrained to pass. In another

direction was seen the Great Stone Face, with the same cheer, combined with

the same solemnity, in its benignant aspect.

Ernest began to speak, giving to the people what was in his heart and mind.

His words had power because they accorded with his thoughts, and his thoughts

had reality and depth because they harmonized with the life which he had always lived.

It was not mere breath that this preacher uttered; they were the words of life because

a life of good deeds and holy love was melted into them. Pearls, pure and rich,

had been dissolved into this precious draught. The poet, as he listened, felt that

the being and character of Ernest were a nobler strain of poetry than he had ever

written. His eyes glistening with tears, he gazed reverentially at the venerable man

and said within himself that never was there an aspect so worthy of a prophet

and a sage as that mild, sweet, thoughtful countenance, with the glory of white hair

diffused about it. At a distance, but distinctly to be seen, high up in the golden light

of the setting sun, appeared the Great Stone Face, with hoary mists around it, like

the white hairs around the brow of Ernest. Its look of grand beneficence seemed

to embrace the world.

At that moment, in sympathy with a thought that he was about to utter, the face

of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression so imbued with benevolence

that the poet, by an irresistible impulse, threw his arms aloft and shouted,

“Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the Great Stone Face!”

Then all the people looked and saw that what the deep-sighted poet said was true.

The prophecy was fulfilled. But Ernest, having finished what he had to say, took

the poet’s arm and walked slowly homeward, still hoping that some wiser and better

man than himself would by and by appear, bearing a resemblance

to the GREAT STONE FACE.

The End