eak, 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. It was not mere breath that this
preacher uttered; they were the words of life, because a life of good
deeds and holy love was melted into them. Pearls, pure and rich, had
been dissolved into this precious draught. 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. Its look of grand beneficence seemed to
embrace the world.

At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter,
the face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so imbued with
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. But Ernest, having finished what
he had to say, took the poet's arm, and walked slowly homeward, still
hoping that some wiser and better man than himself would by and by
appear, bearing a resemblance to the GREAT STONE FACE.

THE AMBITIOUS GUEST

One September night a family had gathered round their hearth, and piled
it high with the driftwood of mountain streams, the dry cones of the
pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing
down the precipice. Up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened the
room with its broad blaze. The faces of the father and mother had a
sober gladness; the children laughed; the eldest daughter was the image
of Happiness at seventeen; and the aged grandmother who sat knitting in
the warmest place, was the image of Happiness grown old. They had found
the 'herb, heart's-ease,' in the bleakest spot of all New England. (This
family were situated in the Notch of the White Hills, where