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The Great Stone Face
Nathaniel Hawthorne
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.
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"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
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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.
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