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 discourse to an assemblage of the neighbouring 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
tapestry for the naked rocks, 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 niche, spacious enough to admit
a human figure, with freedom for such gestures as spontaneously
accompany earnest thought and genuine emotion. 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 obliquely
over them, and mingling its subdued cheerfulness with the solemnity of
a grove of ancient trees, beneath and amid the boughs of which the
golden rays were constrained to pass. 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
harmonised 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 n