One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy
sat at the door of their cottage in a fertile and populous valley,
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.
This Great Stone Face was a work of nature, 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 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.
It was a happy lot for the children in the valley to grow up to manhood
or womanhood with the Great Stone Face before their eyes, for all the
features were 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 its tenderness into the
sunshine.
As the mother and her son, whose name was Ernest, continued to talk
about the Great Stone Face, the boy said, “Mother, 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, sometime or other, with exactly such a face as that.”
“What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?” eagerly inquired Ernest.
“Pray, tell me all about it!”
So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her when
she herself was even 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 said, it had been
murmured by the mountain streams and whispered by the wind among the
tree-tops. The story 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.
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, sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with
intelligence beaming from his face. Yet he 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.
As time went on there were many apparent fulfilments of the ancient
prophecy which had excited such hope and longing in the boy’s heart.
First came the merchant, Mr. Gathergold, who had gone forth from the
valley in childhood and had now returned with great wealth. Ernest
thought of all the ways by which a man of wealth might transform himself
into an angel of beneficence, and he waited the great man’s coming,
hoping to behold the living likeness of those wondrous features on the
mountainside. But he turned sadly away from the people who were
shouting, “The very image of the Great Stone Face,” and gazed up the
valley, where, gilded by the last sunbeams, he could still distinguish
those glorious features which had so impressed themselves into his soul.
Ten years later it began to be rumored that one who had gone forth to be
a soldier, and was now a great general, bore striking likeness to the
Great Stone Face. Again, when Ernest was in middle life, there came a
report that the likeness of the Great Stone Face had appeared upon the
shoulders of an eminent statesman. But in both soldier and statesman the
cherished hopes of the dwellers in the valley were doomed to
disappointment, and Ernest became an aged man with his childhood’s
prophecy yet unfulfilled.
Meantime Ernest had ceased to be obscure. Wise and busy men came from
far to converse with him. While they talked together, his face would
kindle, unawares, and shine upon them as with mild evening light.
Passing up the valley as they took their leave, and pausing to look at
the Great Stone Face, his guests imagined 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 new poet had made
his way to fame. He likewise was a native of the valley. The songs of
this poet found their way to Ernest. As he read stanzas that caused the
soul to thrill within him, he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance
beaming on him so kindly.
“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 had not only heard of Ernest, but had also
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 found him at Ernest’s
cottage.
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. But his countenance fell; he shook his head and sighed.
“You hoped,” said the poet, faintly smiling, “to find in me the likeness
of the Great Stone Face, and you are disappointed. I am not worthy to be
typified by yonder image. 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.” 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 custom, Ernest was to preach
to the people 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. At a distance was seen the Great Stone Face, with solemnity and
cheer in its aspect.
At a small elevation, set in a rich framework of vegetation, there
appeared a niche spacious enough to admit a human figure. Into this
natural pulpit Ernest ascended, and threw a look of familiar kindness
around upon the audience. He began to speak, giving to the people of
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.
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
glistened with tears as he gazed reverently at the venerable man. At
that moment, in sympathy with a thought which 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 homewards, still
hoping that some wiser and better man than himself would by and by
appear, bearing a resemblance to the Great Stone Face.
--NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE (_Adapted_).