But not in vain had he grown old: more than the white hairs on hishead were the sage thoughts in his mind; his wrinkles and furrows wereinscriptions that Time had graved, and in which he had written legendsof wisdom that had been tested by the tenor of a life. And Ernesthad ceased to be obscure. Unsought for, undesired, had come the famewhich so many seek, and made him known in the great world, beyondthe limits of the valley in which he had dwelt so quietly. Collegeprofessors, and even the active men of cities, came from far to seeand converse with Ernest; for the report had gone abroad that thissimple husbandman had ideas unlike those of other men, not gained frombooks, but of a higher tone- a tranquil and familiar majesty, as if hehad been talking with the angels as his daily friends. Whether it weresage, statesman, or philanthropist, Ernest received these visitorswith the gentle sincerity that had characterized him from boyhood, andspoke freely with them of whatever came uppermost, or lay deepest inhis heart or their own. While they talked together, his face wouldkindle, unawares, and shine upon them, as with a mild evening light.
Pensive with the fulness of such discourse, his guests took leaveand went their way; and, passing up the valley, paused to look atthe Great Stone Face, imagining that they had seen its likeness in ahuman countenance, but could not remember where.
While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountifulProvidence had granted a new poet to this earth. He, likewise, was anative of the valley but had spent the greater part of his life at adistance from that romantic region, pouring out his sweet music amidthe bustle and din of cities. Often, however, did the mountainswhich had been familiar to him in his childhood lift their snowy peaksinto the clear atmosphere of his poetry. Neither was the Great StoneFace forgotten, for the poet had celebrated it in an ode, which wasgrand enough to have been uttered by its own majestic lips. This manof genius, we may say, had come down from heaven with wonderfulendowments. If he sang of a mountain, the eyes of all mankind beheld amightier grandeur reposing on its breast, or soaring to its summit,than had before been seen there. If his theme were a lovely lake, acelestial smile had now been thrown over it, to gleam forever on itssurface. If it were the vast old sea, even the deep immensity of itsdread bosom seemed to swell the higher, as if moved by the emotions ofthe song. Thus the world assumed another and a better aspect fromthe hour that the poet blessed it with his happy eyes. The Creator hadbestowed him, as the last, best touch to his own handiwork. Creationwas not finished till the poet came to interpret, and so complete it.
The effect was no less high and beautiful, when his humanbrethren were the subject of his verse. The man or woman, sordidwith the common dust of life, who crossed his daily path, and thelittle child who played in it, were glorified if he beheld them in hismood of poetic faith. He showed the golden links of the great chainthat intertwined them with an angelic kindred; he brought out thehidden traits of a celestial birth that made them worthy of suchkin. Some, indeed, there were, who thought to show the soundness oftheir judgment by affirming that all the beauty and dignity of thenatural world existed only in the poet's fancy. Let such men speak forthemselves, who undoubtedly appear to have been spawned forth byNature with a contemptuous bitterness; she having plastered them upout of her refuse stuff, after all the swine were made. As respectsall things else, the poet's ideal was the truest truth.
The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read them,after his customary toil, seated on the bench before his cottage door,where, for such a length of time, he had filled his repose withthought by gazing at the Great Stone Face. And now, as he read stanzasthat caused the soul to thrill within him, he lifted his eyes to thevast countenance beaming on him so benignantly.
"O, majestic friend," he murmured, addressing the Great Stone Face,"is not this man worthy to resemble thee?"The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word.
Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had notonly heard of Ernest, but had meditated much upon his character, untilhe deemed nothing so desirable as to meet this man, whose untaughtwisdom 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 greatdistance from Ernest's cottage. The great hotel, which had formerlybeen the palace of Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand, but the poetwith his carpet-bag on his arm, inquired at once where Ernest dwelt,and was resolved to be accepted as his guest.
Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding avolume in his hand, which alternately he read, and then, with a fingerbetween the leaves, looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face.
"Good evening," said the poet. "Can you give a traveller anight's lodging?"'
