THE FACE AGAINST THE PANE

Alexander Mackenzie

Upon a bright June morning, in the year 1789, the gates of Fort Chipewyan, on the south shore of Lake Athabaska, opened to give passage to a party of gayly dressed fur-traders. At their head strode a handsome young Scotsman named Alexander Mackenzie. The love of adventure had brought him from the Highlands to Montreal, where he joined a company of merchants engaged in the western fur-trade. Bartering blankets and beads for beaver-skins soon grew wearisome, however, and Mackenzie looked around eagerly for a chance to win fame for himself and glory for his adopted country. He had heard of the wonderful journey of Samuel Hearne, from the shores of Hudson Bay to the far-off mouth of the Coppermine River, and determined that he too would explore the immense unknown country that lay to the northward.

Fort Chipewyan had been built only in 1788, by Mackenzie’s cousin Roderick, and although some of the fur-traders had pushed their way a few hundred miles farther north to the shores of Great Slave Lake, nothing was known of what lay beyond, except from the reports of roving Indians. These Indians were in the habit of bringing their furs to Fort Chipewyan to trade, and Mackenzie never lost a chance of questioning them as to the nature of the country through which they had travelled. They would draw rude maps for him on birch-bark, or in the sand, of rivers, lakes, and mountains. Finally they told him of a mighty river that ran out of the western end of Great Slave Lake. None of them had ever been to its mouth, but they had been told by Indians of a different tribe who lived upon the banks of this river, that it emptied into the sea at such an immense distance that one would have to journey for several years to reach the salt water. Mackenzie knew that this could not be true, but he made up his mind to explore this great river and discover whether it flowed into the Arctic Sea or into the Pacific.

All preparations having been made, therefore, he and his plucky little band of French-Canadian boatmen and Indian hunters got into their canoes. Amid shouts of farewell from the fort, the paddles dipped noiselessly into the water, and they were off on their long journey to the mouth of the Mackenzie. A few days’ paddling brought them to Great Slave Lake, which they had to cross very carefully in their frail birch-bark canoes, as great massesof ice were still floating about in spite of the warm June sun. Before the end of the month they had reached the western end of the lake, and entered the Mackenzie River.

Day by day and week by week they paddled steadily onwards, the days growing longer as they went farther north. It must have seemed strange to rise, as they did, at two o’clock in the morning, and find the sun already up before them. As they journeyed down the river they met many new tribes of Indians, who had never before seen white men. Sometimes the Indians would rush into the woods in terror; at other times they would brandish their spears and clubs threateningly, until Mackenzie made them understand by signs that the white men were friends, not enemies. Then they would come near and examine with wonder his strange clothes and weapons, and they were willing to offer him all that they owned for a handful of bright-colored beads.

Early in July, Mackenzie reached a point where another river emptied into the one he was exploring. The Indians told him that this river came from a very great lake, which they called Bear Lake, some distance off to the eastward. Two days later he came to what were afterwards known as the Ramparts of the Mackenzie River, where the rocky banks rise to a great height, as straight as the walls of a room. The river grew narrow at this point and rushed forward so violently that Mackenzie and his men feared every moment would be their last. With great care, however, they managed to keep the canoes afloat, and presentlythe river widened out again and the current became less rapid.

Mackenzie now knew, from the direction of the river, that it must empty into the Arctic Sea, and as the short summer would soon be over, he would have to turn back within a few days. He therefore urged his men forward at their utmost speed. On July 10th, he came to a place where the river divides into a number of channels. He chose what seemed the largest, and on they went, racing for the mouth of the great river. Finally the banks widened out into what seemed at first to be a lake. Weary and dispirited, the explorer landed upon an island and threw himself down upon the hard ground to sleep. A shout from one of his men aroused him a few hours later. The water had risen, he said, and was carrying away their provisions. There could no longer be any doubt. The rising water was the tide, and the long task was completed. They had reached the mouth of the Mackenzie, and stood upon the shores of the Arctic Sea. A post was driven into the frozen ground, upon which Mackenzie carved his own name and those of his men, with the date. Then he gave the word, and the canoes bounded away with renewed energy on the long journey back to Fort Chipewyan.

—Lawrence J. Burpee.

Count that day lost whose low descending sunViews from thy hand no worthy action done.

Mabel, little Mabel,With face against the pane,Looks out across the night,And sees the Beacon LightA-trembling in the rain.She hears the sea-bird screech,And the breakers on the beachMaking moan, making moan.And the wind about the eavesOf the cottage sobs and grieves;And the willow tree is blownTo and fro, to and fro,Till it seems like some old croneStanding out there all alone,With her woe!Wringing, as she stands,Her gaunt and palsied hands;While Mabel, timid Mabel,With face against the pane,Looks out across the night,And sees the Beacon LightA-trembling in the rain.Set the table, maiden Mabel,And make the cabin warm;Your little fisher loverIs out there in the storm;And your father,—you are weeping!O Mabel, timid Mabel,Go spread the supper table,And set the tea a-steeping.Your lover’s heart is brave,His boat is staunch and tight;And your father knows the perilous reefThat makes the water white.But Mabel, Mabel darling,With her face against the pane,Looks out across the nightAt the Beacon in the rain.The heavens are veined with fireAnd the thunder, how it rolls!In the lullings of the stormThe solemn church bell tollsFor lost souls!But no sexton sounds the knell;In that belfry, old and high,Unseen fingers sway the bell,As the wind goes tearing by!How it tolls, for the soulsOf the sailors on the sea!God pity them, God pity them,Wherever they may be!God pity wives and sweetheartsWho wait and wait, in vain!And pity little Mabel,With her face against the pane.A boom! the lighthouse gun!How its echo rolls and rolls!’Tis to warn home-bound shipsOff the shoals.See, a rocket cleaves the sky—From the fort, a shaft of light!See, it fades, and, fading, leavesGolden furrows on the night!What makes Mabel’s cheek so pale?What makes Mabel’s lips so white?Did she see the helpless sailThat, tossing here and thereLike a feather in the air,Went down and out of sight—Down, down, and out of sight?Oh, watch no more, no more,With face against the pane;You cannot see the men that drownBy the Beacon in the rain!From a shoal of richest rubiesBreaks the morning clear and cold;And the angel of the village spire,Frost-touched, is bright as gold.Four ancient fishermenIn the pleasant autumn air,Come toiling up the sandsWith something in their hands,—Two bodies stark and white,Ah! so ghastly in the light,With sea-weed in their hair.Oh, ancient fishermen,Go up to yonder cot!You’ll find a little childWith face against the pane,Who looks towards the beach,And, looking, sees it not.She will never watch again!Never watch and weep at night!For those pretty, saintly eyesLook beyond the stormy skies,And they see the Beacon Light.—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

Set the table, maiden Mabel,And make the cabin warm;Your little fisher loverIs out there in the storm;And your father,—you are weeping!O Mabel, timid Mabel,Go spread the supper table,And set the tea a-steeping.Your lover’s heart is brave,His boat is staunch and tight;And your father knows the perilous reefThat makes the water white.But Mabel, Mabel darling,With her face against the pane,Looks out across the nightAt the Beacon in the rain.

The heavens are veined with fireAnd the thunder, how it rolls!In the lullings of the stormThe solemn church bell tollsFor lost souls!But no sexton sounds the knell;In that belfry, old and high,Unseen fingers sway the bell,As the wind goes tearing by!How it tolls, for the soulsOf the sailors on the sea!God pity them, God pity them,Wherever they may be!God pity wives and sweetheartsWho wait and wait, in vain!And pity little Mabel,With her face against the pane.

A boom! the lighthouse gun!How its echo rolls and rolls!’Tis to warn home-bound shipsOff the shoals.See, a rocket cleaves the sky—From the fort, a shaft of light!See, it fades, and, fading, leavesGolden furrows on the night!What makes Mabel’s cheek so pale?What makes Mabel’s lips so white?Did she see the helpless sailThat, tossing here and thereLike a feather in the air,Went down and out of sight—Down, down, and out of sight?Oh, watch no more, no more,With face against the pane;You cannot see the men that drownBy the Beacon in the rain!

From a shoal of richest rubiesBreaks the morning clear and cold;And the angel of the village spire,Frost-touched, is bright as gold.Four ancient fishermenIn the pleasant autumn air,Come toiling up the sandsWith something in their hands,—Two bodies stark and white,Ah! so ghastly in the light,With sea-weed in their hair.

Oh, ancient fishermen,Go up to yonder cot!You’ll find a little childWith face against the pane,Who looks towards the beach,And, looking, sees it not.She will never watch again!Never watch and weep at night!For those pretty, saintly eyesLook beyond the stormy skies,And they see the Beacon Light.—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.

This above all: to thine own self be true,And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.

A frightful thing had just happened; one of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four pound cannon, had become loose.

This is perhaps the most dreadful thing that can take place at sea. Nothing more terrible can happen to a man-of-war under full sail. A cannon that breaks loose from its fastenings is suddenly transformed into a supernatural beast. It is a monster developed from a machine. This mass rolls along on its wheels as easily as a billiard ball; it rolls with the rolling, pitches with the pitching, comes and goes, stops and seems to meditate, begins anew, darts like an arrow from one end of the ship to the other, whirls around, turns aside, evades, rears, hits out, crushes, kills, exterminates.

Victor Hugo

It has the air of having lost its patience, and of taking a mysterious, dull revenge. The mad mass leaps like a panther; it has the weight of an elephant, the agility of a mouse, the obstinacy of an axe; it takes one by surprise like the surge of the sea; it flashes like lightning; it is deaf as the tomb; it weighs ten thousand pounds, and it bounds like a child’s ball. How can one guard against these terrible movements?

The ship had within its depths, so to speak, imprisoned lightning struggling to escape; something like the rumbling of thunder during an earthquake. In an instant the crew were on their feet. Brave men though they were, they paused, silent, pale, and undecided, looking down at the gun deck. Some one pushed them aside with his elbow and descended. It was their passenger, the peasant, the man about whom they had been talking a minute ago.

Having reached the foot of the ladder he halted. The cannon was rolling to and fro on the gun deck. A dim wavering of lights and shadows was added to this spectacle by the marine lantern swinging under the deck. The outlines of the cannon were becoming indistinguishable by reason of the rapidity of its motion; sometimes it looked black when the light shone upon it, then again it would cast pale, glimmering reflections in the darkness.

It was still pursuing its work of destruction. It had already shattered four other pieces, and made two breaches in the ship’s side, fortunately above the water line. It rushed frantically against the timbers; the stout riders resisted,—curved timbers have great strength; but one could hear them crack under this tremendous assault. The whole ship was filled with the tumult.

The captain, who had rapidly recovered his self-possession, had given orders to throw down the hatchway all that could abate the rage and check the mad onslaught of this infuriated gun,—mattresses, hammocks, spare sails,coils of rope, and bales of paper. But what availed these rags? No one dared to go down to arrange them, and in a few moments they were reduced to lint. Meanwhile the havoc increased. The mizzenmast was split and even the mainmast was damaged by the convulsive blows of the cannon. The fractures in the side grew larger and the ship began to leak.

The old passenger, who had descended to the gun deck, looked like one carved in stone, as he stood motionless at the foot of the ladder. Suddenly, as the escaped cannon was tossing from side to side, a man appeared, grasping an iron bar. It was the chief gunner, whose criminal negligence was the cause of the catastrophe. Having brought about the evil, he now intended to repair it. Holding a handspike in one hand, and in the other a rope with a noose in it, he had jumped through the hatchway to the deck below.

Then began a terrible struggle; a contest between mind and matter; a duel between man and the inanimate. The man stood in one corner holding in his hands the bar and the rope; calm, livid, and tragic, he stood firmly on his legs that were like two pillars of steel. He was waiting for the cannon to approach him. The gunner knew his piece, and he felt as if it must know him. They had lived together a long time. How often had he put his hand into its mouth! He began to talk to it as he would to a dog. “Come,” said he. Possibly he loved it.

When, in the act of accepting this awful hand-to-hand struggle, the gunner approached to challenge the cannon, it happened that the surging sea held the gun motionless for an instant, as if stupefied. “Come on!” said the man. It seemed to listen. Suddenly it leaped towards him. The man dodged. Then the struggle began,—a contest unheard of; the human warrior attacking the brazen beast; blind force on one side, soul on the other. It was as if a gigantic insect of iron was endowed with the will of a demon. Now and then this colossal grasshopper would strike the low ceiling of the gun deck, then falling back on its four wheels, like a tiger on all fours, would rush upon the man. He—supple, agile, adroit—writhed like a serpent before these lightning movements.

A piece of broken chain remained attached to the carronade; one end was fastened to the gun carriage; the other end thrashed wildly around, aggravating the danger with every bound of the cannon. The screw held it as in a clenched hand, and this chain, multiplying the strokes of the battering ram by those of the thong, made a terrible whirlwind around the gun,—a lash of iron in a fist of brass. The chain complicated the combat.

Despite all this, the man fought. Suddenly the cannon seemed to say to itself: “Now, then, there must be an end to this.” And it stopped. A crisis was felt to be at hand. All at once it hurled itself upon the gunner, who sprangaside with a laugh as the cannon passed him. Then, as though blind and beside itself, it turned from the man and rolled from stern to stem, splintering the latter and causing a breach in the walls of the prow.

The gunner took refuge at the foot of the ladder, a short distance from the old man, who stood watching. Without taking the trouble to turn, the cannon rushed backwards on the man, as swift as the blow of an axe. The gunner, if driven against the side of the ship, would be lost. A cry arose from the crew.

The old passenger, who until this moment had stood motionless, sprang forwards more swiftly than all those mad whirls. He had seized a bale of paper, and at the risk of being crushed succeeded in throwing it between the wheels of the carronade.

The bale had the effect of a plug. The carronade stumbled, and the gunner thrust his iron bar between the spokes of the back wheels. Pitching forwards, the cannon stopped; and the man, using his bar for a lever, rocked it backwards and forwards. The heavy mass upset, with the resonant sound of a bell that crashes in its fall. The man flung himself upon it, and passed the slip noose round the neck of the defeated monster.

The combat was ended. The man had conquered. The ant had overcome the mastodon; the pigmy had imprisoned the thunderbolt.

—From the French ofVictor Hugo.

On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having offered up my morning devotions, I ascended to the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another, “Surely,” said I, “man is but a shadow, and life a dream.” Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him, he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

Joseph Addison

I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius, and that several had been entertained with that music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he hadraised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand, directed me to approach to the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature; and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, “Mirza,” said he, “I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.”

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it. “Cast thy eyes eastward,” said he, “and tell me what thou seest.”—“I see,” said I, “a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.” “The valley that thou seest,” said he, “is the vale of Misery; and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of Eternity.” “What is the reason,” said I, “that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?” “What thou seest,” said he, “is that portion of Eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation.”

“Examine now,” said he, “this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.” “I see a bridge,” said I, “standing in the midst ofthe tide.” “The bridge thou seest,” said he, “is Human life; consider it attentively.” Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number to about an hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge first consisted of a thousand arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it.

“But tell me further,” said he, “what thou discoverest on it.” “I see multitudes of people passing over it,” said I, “and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.” As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire. There were, indeed, some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through, one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderfulstructure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves; some were looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight; multitudes were busy in the pursuit of bubbles, that glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects I observed some with scimiters in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons upon trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them.

The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. “Take thine eyes off the bridge,” said he, “and tell me if thou seest any thing that thou dost not comprehend.” Upon looking up, “What mean,” said I, “those great flocks of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many other feathered creatures, several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches.” “These,” said the genius, “are Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that infest human life.”

I here fetched a deep sigh: “Alas,” said I, “man wasmade in vain! how is he given away to misery and mortality, tortured in life, and swallowed up in death!” The genius being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. “Look no more,” said he, “on man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity, but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it.” I directed my sight as I was ordered, and I saw the valley opening at the farther end, and spreading into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted with innumerable islands that were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that rang among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the side of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers, and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments.

Gladness grew in me at the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. “The islands,” said he, “that lie so fresh and green before thee,and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted, as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sand on the sea-shore: there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or even thine imagination, can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled in them; every island is a paradise, accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending for? Does life appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him.”

I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length said I, “Show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean, on the other side of the rock of adamant.” The genius making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found he had left me. I then turned again to the vision I had been so long contemplating; but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long, hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it.—Joseph Addison.

These are the gardens of the desert, theseThe unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,For which the speech of England has no name—The Prairies. I behold them for the first,And my heart swells, while the dilated sightTakes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretchIn airy undulations, far away,As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed,And motionless forever. Motionless?—No—they are all unchained again. The cloudsSweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;Dark hollows seem to glide along, and chaseThe sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not,—ye have playedAmong the palms of Mexico and vinesOf Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooksThat from the fountains of Sonora glideInto the calm Pacific—have ye fannedA nobler or a lovelier scene than this?Man hath no part in all this glorious work:The Hand that built the firmament hath heavedAnd smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopesWith herbage, planted them with island groves,And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floorFor this magnificent temple of the sky—With flowers whose glory and whose multitudeRival the constellations! The great heavensSeem to stoop down upon the scene in love,—A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue,Than that which bends above our Eastern hills.As o’er the verdant waste I guide my steed,Among the high, rank grass that sweeps his sides,The hollow beating of his footstep seemsA sacrilegious sound. I think of thoseUpon whose rest he tramples. Are they here—The dead of other days?—and did the dustOf these fair solitudes once stir with life,And burn with passion? Let the mighty moundsThat overlook the rivers, or that riseIn the dim forest crowded with old oaks,—Answer. A race, that long has passed away,Built them;—a disciplined and populous raceHeaped with long toil, the earth, while yet the GreekWas hewing the Pentelicus to formsOf symmetry, and rearing on its rockThe glittering Parthenon. These ample fieldsNourished their harvests, here their herds were fed,When haply by their stalls the bison lowed,And bowed his manèd shoulder to the yoke.All day this desert murmured with their toils,Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooedIn a forgotten language, and old tunes,From instruments of unremembered form,Gave to soft winds a voice. The red man came—The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce,And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.The solitude of centuries untoldHas settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolfHunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug denYawns by my path. The gopher mines the groundWhere stood their swarming cities. All is gone;All,—save the piles of earth that hold their bones,The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods,The barriers which they builded from the soilTo keep the foe at bay, till o’er the wallsThe wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one,The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heapedWith corpses. The brown vultures of the woodFlocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres,And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast.Haply, some solitary fugitive,Lurking in marsh and forest, till the senseOf desolation and of fear becameBitterer than death, yielded himself to die.Man’s better nature triumphed then; kind wordsWelcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerorsSeated the captive with their chiefs; he choseA bride among their maidens, and at lengthSeemed to forget—yet ne’er forgot—the wifeOf his first love, and her sweet little ones,Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race.Thus change the forms of being. Thus ariseRaces of living things, glorious in strength,And perish, as the quickening breath of GodFills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too,Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long,And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, soughtA wider hunting-ground. The beaver buildsNo longer by these streams, but far awayOn waters whose blue surface ne’er gave backThe white man’s face—among Missouri’s springs,And pools whose issues swell the Oregon,He rears his little Venice. In the plainsThe bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leaguesBeyond remotest smoke of hunter’s camp,Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shakeThe earth with thundering steps;—yet here I meetHis ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.Still this great solitude is quick with life.Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowersThey flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man,Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deerBounds to the woods at my approach. The bee,A more adventurous colonist than man,With whom he came across the Eastern deep,Fills the savannas with his murmurings,And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,Within the hollow oak. I listen longTo his domestic hum, and think I hearThe sound of that advancing multitudeWhich soon shall fill these deserts. From the groundComes up the laugh of children, the soft voiceOf maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymnOf Sabbath worshippers. The low of herdsBlends with the rustling of the heavy grainOver the dark-brown furrows. All at onceA fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,And I am in the wilderness alone.—William Cullen Bryant.

As o’er the verdant waste I guide my steed,Among the high, rank grass that sweeps his sides,The hollow beating of his footstep seemsA sacrilegious sound. I think of thoseUpon whose rest he tramples. Are they here—The dead of other days?—and did the dustOf these fair solitudes once stir with life,And burn with passion? Let the mighty moundsThat overlook the rivers, or that riseIn the dim forest crowded with old oaks,—Answer. A race, that long has passed away,Built them;—a disciplined and populous raceHeaped with long toil, the earth, while yet the GreekWas hewing the Pentelicus to formsOf symmetry, and rearing on its rockThe glittering Parthenon. These ample fieldsNourished their harvests, here their herds were fed,When haply by their stalls the bison lowed,And bowed his manèd shoulder to the yoke.All day this desert murmured with their toils,Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooedIn a forgotten language, and old tunes,From instruments of unremembered form,Gave to soft winds a voice. The red man came—The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce,And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.The solitude of centuries untoldHas settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolfHunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug denYawns by my path. The gopher mines the groundWhere stood their swarming cities. All is gone;All,—save the piles of earth that hold their bones,The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods,The barriers which they builded from the soilTo keep the foe at bay, till o’er the wallsThe wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one,The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heapedWith corpses. The brown vultures of the woodFlocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres,And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast.Haply, some solitary fugitive,Lurking in marsh and forest, till the senseOf desolation and of fear becameBitterer than death, yielded himself to die.Man’s better nature triumphed then; kind wordsWelcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerorsSeated the captive with their chiefs; he choseA bride among their maidens, and at lengthSeemed to forget—yet ne’er forgot—the wifeOf his first love, and her sweet little ones,Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race.

Thus change the forms of being. Thus ariseRaces of living things, glorious in strength,And perish, as the quickening breath of GodFills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too,Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long,And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, soughtA wider hunting-ground. The beaver buildsNo longer by these streams, but far awayOn waters whose blue surface ne’er gave backThe white man’s face—among Missouri’s springs,And pools whose issues swell the Oregon,He rears his little Venice. In the plainsThe bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leaguesBeyond remotest smoke of hunter’s camp,Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shakeThe earth with thundering steps;—yet here I meetHis ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.

Still this great solitude is quick with life.Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowersThey flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man,Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deerBounds to the woods at my approach. The bee,A more adventurous colonist than man,With whom he came across the Eastern deep,Fills the savannas with his murmurings,And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,Within the hollow oak. I listen longTo his domestic hum, and think I hearThe sound of that advancing multitudeWhich soon shall fill these deserts. From the groundComes up the laugh of children, the soft voiceOf maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymnOf Sabbath worshippers. The low of herdsBlends with the rustling of the heavy grainOver the dark-brown furrows. All at onceA fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,And I am in the wilderness alone.—William Cullen Bryant.

One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat at the door of their cottage in a fertile and populous valley, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles away, with the sunshine brightening all its features.

This Great Stone Face was a work of nature, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain by some immenserocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as, when viewed at a proper distance, precisely to resemble the features of the human countenance. It seemed as if an enormous giant had sculptured his own likeness on the precipice. There was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet in height; the nose with its long bridge; and the vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would have rolled their thunder accents from one end of the valley to the other.

It was a happy lot for the children in the valley to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the Great Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were noble, and the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warm heart, that embraced all mankind in its affections and had room for more. It was an education only to look at it. According to the belief of many people, the valley owed much of its fertility to this benign aspect that was continually beaming over it, illuminating the clouds and infusing its tenderness into the sunshine.

As the mother and her son, whose name was Ernest, continued to talk about the Great Stone Face, the boy said, “Mother, if I were to see a man with such a face I should love him dearly.”

“If an old prophecy should come to pass,” answered his mother, “we may see a man, sometime or other, with exactly such a face as that.”

“What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?” eagerly inquired Ernest. “Pray, tell me all about it!”

So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her when she herself was even younger than little Ernest; a story not of things that were past, but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old that even the Indians, who formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it from their forefathers, to whom, as they said, it had been murmured by the mountain streams and whispered by the wind among the tree-tops. The story was that at some future day a child should be born hereabouts who was destined to become the greatest and noblest personage of his time, and whose countenance in manhood should bear an exact resemblance to the Great Stone Face.

And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. It was always in his mind whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He spent his childhood in the log cottage where he was born, and was dutiful to his mother and helpful to her in many things, assisting her much with his little hands and more with his loving heart. In this manner, from a happy yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a mild, quiet, unobtrusive boy, sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with intelligence beaming from his face. Yet he had had no teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him. When the toil of the day was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he began to imagine that those vast features recognized him, and gave him a smile of kindness and encouragement, responsive to his own look of veneration.

As time went on there were many apparent fulfilments ofthe ancient prophecy which had excited such hope and longing in the boy’s heart. First came the merchant, Mr. Gathergold, who had gone forth from the valley in childhood and had now returned with great wealth. Ernest thought of all the ways by which a man of wealth might transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and he waited the great man’s coming, hoping to behold the living likeness of those wondrous features on the mountainside. But he turned sadly away from the people who were shouting, “The very image of the Great Stone Face,” and gazed up the valley, where, gilded by the last sunbeams, he could still distinguish those glorious features which had so impressed themselves into his soul.

Ten years later it began to be rumored that one who had gone forth to be a soldier, and was now a great general, bore striking likeness to the Great Stone Face. Again, when Ernest was in middle life, there came a report that the likeness of the Great Stone Face had appeared upon the shoulders of an eminent statesman. But in both soldier and statesman the cherished hopes of the dwellers in the valley were doomed to disappointment, and Ernest became an aged man with his childhood’s prophecy yet unfulfilled.

Meantime Ernest had ceased to be obscure. Wise and busy men came from far to converse with him. While they talked together, his face would kindle, unawares, and shine upon them as with mild evening light. Passing up the valley as they took their leave, and pausing to look at the Great Stone Face, his guests imagined that theyhad seen its likeness in a human countenance, but could not remember where.

While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a new poet had made his way to fame. He likewise was a native of the valley. The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. As he read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill within him, he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so kindly.

“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.

At a small elevation, set in a rich framework of vegetation, there appeared a niche spacious enough to admit a human figure. Into this natural pulpit Ernest ascended, and threw a look of familiar kindness around upon the audience. He 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 glistened with tears as he gazed reverentlyat the venerable man. 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 homewards, still hoping that some wiser and better man than himself would by and by appear, bearing a resemblance to the Great Stone Face.

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