“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 had not only heard of Ernest, but had also 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 found him at Ernest’s cottage.
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. But his countenance fell; he shook his head and sighed.
“You hoped,” said the poet, faintly smiling, “to find in me the likeness of the Great Stone Face, and you are disappointed. I am not worthy to be typified by yonder image. 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.” 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 custom, Ernest was to preach to the people 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. At a distance was seen the Great Stone Face, with solemnity and cheer in its aspect.