No More Learning

And what was the Great Stone Face? The Great Stone Face 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 [v]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.

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.

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 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 all 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, they believed, it had been murmured
by the mountain streams, and whispered by the wind among the tree tops.
The story said that at some future day a child should be born hereabouts
who was destined to become the greatest and noblest man of his time, and
whose countenance, in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the
Great Stone Face.

"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 hopes of her little boy. She only said to him, "Perhaps
you may," little thinking that the prophecy would one day come true.

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 thoughtful child, he grew to be a mild, quiet,
modest boy, sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with more
intelligence in his face 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 in response to his own look of [v]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. For
the secret was that the boy's tender simplicity [v]discerned what other
people could not see; and thus the love, which was meant for all, became
his alone.


II

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 left 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.

It might be said of him, as of [v]Midas in the fable, that whatever he
touched with his finger immediately glistened, and grew yellow, and was
changed at once into coin. And when Mr. Gathergold had become so rich
that it would have taken him a hundred years only to count his wealth,
he bethought himself of his native valley, and resolved to go back
thither, and end his days where he was born. With this purpose in view,
he sent a skillful architect to build him such a palace as should be fit
for a man of his vast wealth to live in.

As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that Mr.
Gathergold had turned out to be the person so long and vainly looked
for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniable likeness 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 weather-beaten
farmhouse. The exterior was of marble, so dazzling 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 playdays, 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 each composed of but one enormous pane
of glass. Hardly anybody had been permitted to see the interior of this
palace; but it was reported 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
accustomed 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 appear in his
native valley. He knew, boy as he was, that there were a thousand ways
in which Mr. Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might transform himself
into an angel of beneficence, and assume a control over human affairs as
wide and [v]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 face of a
little old man, with a skin as yellow as gold. 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, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe that
here was the likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside there chanced
to be an old beggar woman and two little beggar children, stragglers
from some far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled onward, held out
their hands and lifted up their doleful voices, most piteously
beseeching charity. A yellow claw--the very same that had clawed
together so much wealth--poked itself out of the coach window, and
dropped some copper coins upon the ground; so that, though the great
man's name seems to have been Gathergold, he might just as suitably have
been nicknamed Scattercopper. Still, nevertheless, with an earnest
shout, and evidently with as much good faith as ever, the people
bellowed:

"He is the very image of the Great Stone Face! "

But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that 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, however, it was a pardonable folly, for Ernest was
industrious, kind, and neighborly, and neglected no duty for the sake of
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 molded on the 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, were of a higher tone than those which
all men shared with him. A simple soul,--simple as when his mother first
taught him the old prophecy,--he beheld the marvelous features beaming
down 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 allowed 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
forgot him 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. The man of
prophecy was yet to come.


III

It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years before,
had enlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had
now become an illustrious commander. Whatever he may be called in
history, he was known in camps and on the battlefield under the nickname
of Old Blood-and-Thunder. This war-worn veteran, being now weary 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 [v]renowned
warrior with a salute of cannon and a public dinner; and all the more
enthusiastically because it was believed that at last the likeness of
the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. A friend of Old
Blood-and-Thunder, traveling through the valley, was said to have been
struck with the resemblance. Moreover, the schoolmates and early
acquaintances of the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, to
the best of their recollection, the general had been exceedingly like
the majestic image, even when a boy, only that 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, and all the other people of
the valley, left their work and proceeded to the spot where the 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 green boughs and laurel 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 with their bayonets at any particularly quiet person
among the throng. So Ernest, being of a modest character, was thrust
quite into the background, where he could see no more of Old
Blood-and-Thunder's face than if it had been still blazing on the
battlefield. To console himself he turned toward the Great Stone Face,
which, like a faithful and long-remembered friend, looked back and
smiled upon him through 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. "

"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, 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 weather-beaten 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.

"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 gathered 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
the thin vapors that had swept between him and the object that he had
gazed at. But--as it always did--the aspect of his marvelous friend made
Ernest as hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain.

"Fear not, Ernest," said his heart, even as if the Great Face were
whispering him--"fear not, Ernest. "


IV

More years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. Ernest still dwelt in his
native valley, and was now a man of middle age. By slow 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 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 took shape in the good
deeds that dropped silently from his hand, flowered also forth in
speech. He uttered truths that molded the lives of those who heard him.
His hearers, 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 thoughts came 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 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 [v]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
hearers had no choice but to believe him; wrong looked like right, and
right like wrong. His voice, indeed, was a magic instrument: sometimes
it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled like the sweetest
music. 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,--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.

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 [v]illustrious
statesmen; 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 resemblance, it must be confessed, was marvelous. We must
not forget to mention that there was a band of music, which made the
echoes of the mountains ring 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
such enthusiasm 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 [v]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 bold and strong. But the grand
expression of a divine sympathy that illuminated the mountain visage
might here be sought in vain.

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 shouting 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. "


V

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 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 wise thoughts in his mind. 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
farmer had ideas unlike those of other men, and a tranquil majesty as if
he had been talking with the angels as his daily friends.
Ernest
received these visitors with the gentle sincerity that had marked 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 and shine upon them, as with a mild evening light.
When his guests took leave and went their way, and passing up the
valley, paused to look at the Great Stone Face, they imagined that they
had seen its likeness in a human countenance, but could not remember
where.

While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a 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 he had
celebrated it in a poem which was grand enough to have been uttered by
its lips.

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 said, 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 carpetbag 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 he read, and then, with a finger between the leaves,
looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face.

"Good evening," said the poet. "Can you give a traveler a night's
lodging? "

"Willingly," answered Ernest. And then he added, smiling, "Methinks I
never saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger. "

The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked
together. Often had the poet conversed 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. So thought the poet. And
Ernest, on the other hand, was moved 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.

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 toward the Great Stone Face; then back to his
guest. But his countenance fell; he shook his head, and mournfully
sighed.

"Wherefore are you sad? " inquired the poet.

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

"You hoped," answered the poet, faintly smiling, "to find in me the
likeness of the Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as formerly
with Mr. Gathergold, 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. "

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

"You can hear in them the far-off echo of a heavenly song," replied the
poet. "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 works 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 speak 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 [v]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 [v]niche, spacious enough to admit a human figure. 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
over them. 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. 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.

At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter,
the face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so full of
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. The man had appeared at last.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.


=HELPS TO STUDY=

The Great Stone Face is a rock formation in the Franconia Notch of the
White Mountains of New Hampshire, known as "The Old Man of the
Mountain. "

I. What picture do you get from Part I? Tell in your own words what
the mother told Ernest about the Great Stone Face. Who had carved
the face? How? Find something that is one hundred feet high, and
picture to yourself the immensity of the whole face, judging by the
forehead alone. Describe Ernest's childhood and his education.

II. What reason had the people for thinking that the great man had
come in the person of Mr. Gathergold? Explain the reference to
Midas. What was there in Mr. Gathergold's appearance and action to
disappoint Ernest? What comforted him? Why were the people willing
to believe that Mr. Gathergold was the image of the Great Stone
Face? What caused them to decide that he was not? What was there to
indicate that Ernest would become a great and good man?

III. What new character is now introduced? Wherein was Old
Blood-and-Thunder lacking in resemblance to the Great Stone Face?
Compare him with Mr. Gathergold and decide which was the greater
character? How was Ernest comforted in his second disappointment?

IV. What kind of man had Ernest become? What figure comes into the
story now? Find a sentence that gives a clew to the character of
Stony Phiz. Compare him with the characters previously introduced.
Why was Ernest more disappointed than before? Where did he again
look for comfort?

V. What changes did the hurrying years bring Ernest? What sentence
indicates who the man of prophecy might be? Who is now introduced
in the story? Give the opinion that Ernest and the poet had of each
other. Find the sentence which explains why the poet failed. Who
was the first to recognize in Ernest the likeness to the Great
Stone Face? Why did Hawthorne have a poet to make the discovery? In
what way was Ernest great? How had he become so? What trait of
Ernest's character is shown in the last sentence?

The story is divided into five parts. Make an outline telling what
is the topic of each part.


SUPPLEMENTARY READING

The Sketch Book--Washington Irving.
Old Curiosity Shop--Charles Dickens.
Pendennis--William Makepeace Thackeray.
The Snow-Image--Nathaniel Hawthorne.
The Legend Beautiful--Henry W. Longfellow.
William Wilson--Edgar Allan Poe.

[Illustration: Priscilla and John Alden]




THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH


I

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims,
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in [v]doublet and hose, and boots of [v]Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold the glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,--
Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty [v]sword of Damascus.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window;
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion.
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May Flower.
(Standish takes up a book and reads a moment. )
Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of
Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the warlike weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this
breastplate,
Well, I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mold, in the grave in the Flemish morasses. "
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you to be our shield and our weapon! "
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent [v]adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers! "
All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading.
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling
Writing epistles important to go next day by the May Flower,
Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing,
Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter,
Letters written by Alden and full of the name of Priscilla,
Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla.
Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla,
Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret
Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla!
Finally closing his book, with a bang of its [v]ponderous cover,
Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket,
Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth:
"When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell
you.
Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient! "
Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters,
Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention:
"Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen,
Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish. "
Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases:
"'Tis not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures.
This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it;
Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it.
Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary;
Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship.
Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla,
Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever
There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven,
Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla
Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned.
Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it,
Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part.
Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth;
Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of actions,
Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier.
Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning;
I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. "

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, [v]taciturn stripling,
All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered,
Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness,
Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom,
Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered:
"Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it;
If you would have it well done--I am only repeating your maxim--
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others! "
But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose,
Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth:
"Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it;
But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing.
Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases.
I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender,
But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not.
I'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon,
But of a thundering No! point-blank from the mouth of a woman,
That I confess I am afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it!
Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship! "

Then made answer John Alden: "The name of friendship is sacred;
What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you! "
So the strong will prevailed, subduing and molding the gentler,
Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.


II

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand,
Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest,
Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building
Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of [v]verdure,
Peaceful, [v]aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom.
All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict,
Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse.

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;
Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow;
Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla
Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem,
Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many.
Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden
Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift
Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle,
While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.

So he entered the house; and the hum of the wheel and the singing
Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold,
Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome,
Saying, "I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage;
For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning. "
Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden,
Silent before her he stood.
"I have been thinking all day," said gently the Puritan maiden,
"Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedgerows of
England,--
They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden;
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet,
Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbors
Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together.
Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion;
Still my heart is so sad that I wish myself back in Old England.
You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it; I almost
Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched. "

Thereupon answered the youth: "Indeed I do not condemn you;
Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this terrible winter.
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on;
So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage
Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth! "
Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,--
Did not [v]embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases,
But came straight to the point and blurted it out like a schoolboy;
Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly.
Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden
Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with wonder,
Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned and rendered her
speechless;
Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence:
"If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me,
Why does he not come himself and take trouble to woo me?
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning! "
Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter,
Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy,--
Had no time for such things;--such things! the words grating harshly,
Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as a flash she made answer:
"Has he not time for such things, as you call it, before he is married,
Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding? "
Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla,
Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding.
But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language,
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival,
Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes overrunning with laughter,
Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John? "

With conflicting feelings of love for Priscilla and duty to his friend,
Miles Standish, John Alden does not "speak for himself," but returns to
Plymouth to tell Standish the result of the interview.

Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure,
From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened;
How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship,
Only smoothing a little and softening down her refusal.
But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken,
Words so tender and cruel: "Why don't you speak for yourself, John? "
Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his
armor
Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen.
All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion,
E'en as a hand grenade, that scatters destruction around it.
Wildly he shouted and loud: "John Alden! you have betrayed me!
Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed
me!
You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother;
Henceforth let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable
hatred! "

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber,
Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his
temples.
But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway,
Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance,
Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians!
Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or
parley,
Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron,
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed.
Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard
Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance.
Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness,
Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult,
Lifted his eyes to the heavens and, folding his hands as in childhood,
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret.


III.

A report comes to the settlement that Miles Standish has been killed in
a fight with the Indians. John Alden, feeling that Standish's death has
freed him from the need of keeping his own love for Priscilla silent,
woos and wins her.