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, wit