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 difficult hill-sides. Others had their homes in
comfortable farm-houses, 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
positively 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 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 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 needs
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 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 upon us 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 which 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, and 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 of 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, and 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 skilful 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 the more ready to
believe that this must needs be the fact, when they beheld the splendid
edifice that rose, as if by enchantment, on the site of his father’s
old weatherbeaten farm-house. 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 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, were 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 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
bedchamber, 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 noble man, the man
of prophecy, after so many ages of delay, was at length to be made
manifest to 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 a 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 mountain-side. 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, 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 dropt 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 a better wisdom than could be learned from books, and
a better life than could be moulded 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 marvellous 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; and 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 a 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
mountain-side. 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 battle-field under the
nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder. This war-worn veteran being now
infirm with age and wounds, and weary of the turmoil of a 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, travelling 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 in 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 his
victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on his tiptoes, in hopes to
get 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 battle-field. 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 mountain-side.
“’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
thunderbreath 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, and doing good, and making people happy. But,
taking an 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 effected 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 mountain-side, 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 that he gazed at. But—as it always did—the aspect of his
marvellous 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 him,—“fear not, Ernest; he will come.”
More years sped swiftly and tranquilly 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 that 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, that 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 the 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 moulded 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 mountain-side. 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
which 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 mountain-side 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, on 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, it must be
confessed, was marvellous. We must not forget to mention that there was
a band of music, which made the echoes of the mountains ring and
reverberate with the loud triumph of its strains; so that airy and
soul-thrilling melodies 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
mountain-side. 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, of a 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 marvellously
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 to be 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
the 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 the fame which 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 were 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 a 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 the 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. As respects 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 traveller 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 said, 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 friend 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 profounder sense than 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 other’s. 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
fulfilment 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, and 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 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. 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 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 homeward,
still hoping that some wiser and better man than himself would by and
by appear, bearing a resemblance to the GREAT STONE FACE.