Nathaniel Hawthorne
Great Stone Face
From The Snow Image and Other Twice-Told Tales
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.
1850
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