No More Learning

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony
rolled on. A tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is
the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long
while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting
a kind of perpetual club of sages, philosophers, and other idle
personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a
small inn, designated by a [v]rubicund portrait of His Majesty George
III. Here they used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy summer's day,
talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's
money to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took place,
when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing
traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out
by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster,--a dapper, learned little man,
who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary!
and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months
after they had taken place!

The opinions of this [v]junto were completely controlled by Nicholas
Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door
of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving
sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so
that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as
by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his
pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his
adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his
opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was
observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short,
frequent, and angry puffs; but, when pleased, he would inhale the smoke
slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and
sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant
vapor curl about his nose, would nod his head in approbation.

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his
[v]termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquility of
the assemblage, and call the members all to naught; nor was that august
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of
this terrible virago, who charged him with encouraging her husband in
habits of idleness.

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only
[v]alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his
wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he
would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a
fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress
leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live
thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee. " Wolf would wag his
tail, look wistfully in his master's face; and if dogs can feel pity, I
verily believe he [v]reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill
Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the
still solitudes had echoed and reëchoed with the reports of his gun.
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a
green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a
precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the
lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the
lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic
course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging
bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing
itself in the blue highlands.

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild and
lonely, the bottom filled with fragments from the overhanging cliffs,
and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some
time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the
mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he
saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he
heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame
Van Winkle.

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing,
"Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle! " He looked round, but could see nothing
but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought
his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he
heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle!
Rip Van Winkle! "--at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving
a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into
the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked
anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly
toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he
carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this
lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it to be some one of the
neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the [v]singularity of
the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with
thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique
Dutch fashion,--a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, and several
pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of
buttons down the sides. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed
full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with
the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance,
Rip complied with his usual [v]alacrity, and relieving one another, they
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain
torrent.

As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like
distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather
cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He
paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of
those transient thundershowers which often take place in mountain
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a
hollow, like a small [v]amphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular
precipices, over the brinks of which trees shot their branches, so that
you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud.
During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence;
for though the former marveled greatly, what could be the object of
carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and
checked familiarity.

On entering the amphitheater new objects of wonder presented themselves.
On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages
playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion;
some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their
belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with
that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large
head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to
consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat,
set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various
shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was
a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a
laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red
stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group
reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of
[v]Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which had been brought over
from Holland at the time of the settlement.

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that, though these folks were
evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the
most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of
pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the
scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled,
echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from
their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and
such strange, uncouth countenances, that his heart turned within him,
and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of
the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the
company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in
profound silence, and then returned to their game.

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when
no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had
much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty
soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked
another; and he repeated his visits to the flagon so often that at
length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head
gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.


II

On waking he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen
the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes--it was a bright, sunny
morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and
the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze.
"Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night. " He recalled
the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of
liquor--the mountain ravine--the wild retreat among the rocks--the
woe-begone party at ninepins--the flagon--"Oh! that flagon! that wicked
flagon! " thought Rip; "what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle? "

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled
fowling piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel
incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He
now suspected that the grave revelers of the mountain had put a trick
upon him and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun.
Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a
squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but
all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was
to be seen.

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if
he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to
walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual
activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and
if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall
have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle. " With some difficulty he got
down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had
ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain
stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling
the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up
its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch,
sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the
wild grapevines that twisted their coils from tree to tree, and spread a
kind of network in his path.

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs
to the amphitheater; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks
presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came
tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin,
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip
was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he
was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows sporting high
in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure
in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's
perplexities. What was to be done? --the morning was passing away, and
Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his
dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve
among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock,
and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps
homeward.

As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he
knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself
acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of
a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all
stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their
eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence
of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his
astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange
children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray
beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old
acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered;
it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had
never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had
disappeared. Strange names were over the doors--strange faces at the
windows--everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to
doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched.
Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day
before. There stood the Catskill Mountains--there ran the silver Hudson
at a distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always
been. Rip was sorely perplexed. "That flagon last night," thought he,
"has addled my poor head sadly! "

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house,
which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the
shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay--the
roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A
half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called
him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This
was an unkind cut indeed. "My very dog," sighed Rip, "has forgotten me! "

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had
always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently
abandoned. He called loudly for his wife and children--the lonely
chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was
silence.


III

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village
inn--but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in
its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended
with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union
Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle. " Instead of the great tree that used to
shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a
tall, naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red
nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular
assemblage of stars and stripes; all this was strange and
incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of
King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even
this was singularly changed. The red coat was changed for one of blue
and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, the head
was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large
characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip
recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was
a busy, bustling tone about it, instead of the accustomed drowsy
tranquility. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his
broad face, double chin, and long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke
instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth
the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean fellow,
with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about
rights of citizens--elections--members of congress--Bunker's
Hill--heroes of seventy-six--and other words, which were a perfect
jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling
piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They
crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity.
The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired
"On which side he voted? " Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short
but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe,
inquired in his ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat? " Rip was
equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing,
self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way
through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as
he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo,
the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating,
as it were, into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, "What
brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his
heels; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village? "--"Alas!
gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man, a
native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him! "

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders--"A tory! a tory! a spy!
a refugee! hustle him! away with him! " It was with great difficulty that
the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having
assumed a tenfold [v]austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown
culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking! The poor man
humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in
search of some of his neighbors.

"Well--who are they? Name them. "

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder? "

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a
thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these
eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used
to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone, too. "

"Where's Brom Dutcher? "

"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he
was killed at the storming of Stony Point; others say he was drowned in
a squall at the foot of Anthony's Nose. I don't know; he never came back
again. "

"Where's Van Brummel, the schoolmaster? "

"He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and is now
in congress. "

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and
friends and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer
puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of
matters which he could not understand: war--congress--Stony Point. He
had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair,
"Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle? "

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle! " exclaimed two or three, "oh, to be sure! that's
Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree. "

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up
the mountain--apparently as lazy and certainly as ragged. The poor
fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and
whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment,
the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name.

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wits' end; "I'm not myself--I'm
somebody else--that's me yonder--no--that's somebody else got into my
shoes--I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and
they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I
can't tell what's my name, or who I am! "

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly,
and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper,
also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing
mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the
cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a
fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the
gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened
at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little
fool; the old man won't hurt you. " The name of the child, the air of the
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in
his mind. "What is your name, my good woman? " asked he.

"Judith Gardenier. "

"And your father's name? "

"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since
he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of
since--his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or
was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a
little girl. "

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering
voice:

"Where's your mother? "

"Oh, she, too, had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel
in a fit of passion at a New England peddler. "

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest
man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her
child in his arms. "I am your father! " cried he--"Young Rip Van Winkle
once--Old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle? "

All stood amazed until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd,
put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment,
exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle--it is himself! Welcome
home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these twenty long
years? "

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him
but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were
seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks: and
the self-important man in the cocked hat, who when the alarm was over
had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and
shook his head--upon which there was a general shaking of the head
throughout the assemblage.

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk,
who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the
historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the
province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well
versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood.
He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most
satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed
down from his ancestor the historian, that the Catskill Mountains had
always been haunted by strange beings. It was affirmed that the great
Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a
kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the
_Half-moon_; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his
enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great city
called by his name. His father had once seen them in their old Dutch
dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and he himself
had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant
peals of thunder.

To make a long story short, the company broke up and returned to the
more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to
live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, cheery
farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that
used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto
of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on
the farm; but showed an hereditary disposition to attend to anything
else but his business.

WASHINGTON IRVING.


=HELPS TO STUDY=

"Rip Van Winkle" is the most beautiful of American legendary stories.
Washington Irving, the author, taking the old idea of long sleep, as
found in "The Sleeping Beauty" and other fairy tales, gave it an
American setting and interwove in it the legend of Henry Hudson, the
discoverer of the Hudson river, who was supposed to return to the scene
of his achievement every twenty years, together with the shades of his
crew.

I. Where is the scene of this story laid? In which paragraph do you
learn when the incident related in the story took place? Why does
Irving speak of the mountains as "fairy mountains"? In which
paragraph do you meet the principal characters? Give the opinion
you form of Rip and his wife.
Read sentences that show Rip's good
qualities--those that show his faults. What unusual thing happened
to Rip on his walk? How was the dog affected? Give a full account
of what happened afterward. Tell what impressed you most in this
scene. Read aloud the lines that best describe the scenery.

II. Describe Rip's waking. What was his worst fear? How did he
explain to himself the change in his gun and the disappearance of
Wolf? How did he account for the stiffness of his joints? What was
still his chief fear? Describe the changes which had taken place in
the mountains. With what feeling did he turn homeward? Why? How did
he discover the alteration in his own appearance? How did the
children and dogs treat him? Why was this particularly hard for Rip
to understand? What other changes did he find? What remained
unaltered? How did Rip still account for the peculiar happenings?
Describe Rip's feelings as he turned to his own house, and its
desolation.

III. What change had been made in the sign over the inn? Why? What
important thing was taking place in the village? Why did the speech
of the "lean fellow" seem "perfect jargon" to Rip? Why did he not
understand the questions asked him? What happened when Rip made his
innocent reply to the self-important gentleman? How did he at last
learn of the lapse of time? What added to his bewilderment? How was
the mystery explained? Note the question Rip reserved for the last
and the effect the answer had upon him. How did Peter Vanderdonk
explain the strange happening? What is the happy ending? Do you
like Rip? Why?


SUPPLEMENTARY READING

Urashima--Graded Classics III.
Vice Versa--F. Anstey.
Peter Pan--James Barrie.
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow--Washington Irving.
A Christmas Carol--Charles Dickens.
Enoch Arden--Alfred Tennyson.


FOOTNOTE:

[9-*] For words marked [v], see Dictionary.


[Illustration: Photograph by Aldrich

The Great Stone Face]




THE GREAT STONE FACE


I

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? 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.