Ernest never forgot the story that his mother had told him. The desire to see the fulfilment of the prophecy increased as he grew older. From a happy yet often pensive child, Ernest had grown up to be a mild, quiet, unobtrusive youth when a rumour went throughout his native valley that the great man was about to appear.

It seems that many years before a young man had emigrated from the valley and settled at a distant seaport. His name was Gathergold. He had become an exceedingly rich merchant, and owner of a whole fleet of bulky-bottomed ships. All the countries of the globe contributed to his wealth the cold regions of the north, almost within the gloom and shadow of the Arctic Circle, sent him their tribute in the shape of furs; hot Africa sifted for him the golden sands of her rivers, and gathered up the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of the forest; the East came bringing him the rich shawls, and spices, and teas, and the effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming purity of large pearls. The ocean, not to be behindhand with the earth, yielded up her mighty whales, that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil and make a profit on it. Be the original commodity what it might, it was gold within his grasp. It might be said of him, as of Midas 2 in the fable, that whatever he touched with his finger immediately glistened and grew yellow. Having grown very rich, Mr. Gathergold bethought himself of his native valley, and resolved to go back thither, and end his days where he was born. With this purpose in view, he sent a skilful architect to build him such a palace as should be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in.

When the gorgeous palace was finished, all the inhabitants of the valley awaited with impatient interest the arrival of its wealthy owner, who was said to be the prophetic personage so long and vainly looked for.

"Here he comes !" cried a group of people who were assembled to witness the arrival. "Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!"

A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road. Within it, thrust partly out of the window, appeared the physiognomy of a little old man, with a skin as yellow as if his own Midas-hand had transmuted it. He had a low forehead, small, sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and very thin lips, which he made still thinner by pressing them forcibly together.

"The very image of the Great Stone Face!" shouted the people. And, what perplexed Ernest still more, they seemed actually to believe it-such is the dazzling power of gold in blinding the eyes of the vulgar. But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that sordid3 visage, and gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last sunbeams, he could still distinguish those glorious features which had impressed themselves into his soul. Their aspect cheered him. What did the benign lips seem to say?

"He will come ! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come !"

The years went on, and Ernest passed from youth to manhood. His hopes were thrice raised and thrice dashed to the ground; but still the benign lips seemed to say, "Fear not; the man will come."

The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another's heels. But now they began to bring white hairs, and scatter them over the head of Ernest. They made reverend wrinkles across his forehead, and furrows in his cheeks. He was an aged man; but not in vain had he grown old. More than the white hairs on his head were the sage thoughts in his mind: his wrinkles and furrows were inscriptions that Time had graved, and in which he had written legends of wisdom that had been tested by the tenor of a life.

FULFILMENT OF THE PROPHECY.

While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful Providence had granted a new poet to this earth. He likewise was a native of the valley, but had spent the greater part of his life at a distance from that romantic region, pouring out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. This man of genius, we may say, had come down from heaven with wonderful endowments. If he sang of a mountain, the eyes of all mankind beheld a mightier grandeur reposing on its breast, or soaring to its summit, than had before been seen there. If his theme were a lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown over it to gleam for ever on its surface; if it were the vast old sea, even the deep immensity of its dread bosom seemed to swell the more, as if moved by the emotions of the song. Thus the world assumed another and a better aspect from the hour that the poet blessed it with his happy eyes. The effect was no less high and beautiful when his human brethren were the subject of his verse. The man or woman, sordid with the common dust of life, who crossed his daily path, and the little child who played in it, were glorified if he beheld them in his mood of poetic faith. He showed the golden links of the great chain that intertwined them with an angelic kindred; he brought out the hidden traits. of a celestial birth that made them worthy of such kin. 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 benignantly. "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, though he dwelt so far away, had not only heard of Ernest, but had 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. He accordingly presented himself one summer evening at the door of Ernest's cottage.

"Good evening," said the poet.

traveller a night's lodging?"

"Can you give a

"Willingly," answered Ernest; and then he added, smiling, "Methinks I never saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger."

The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked together. Often had the poet held intercourse with the wittiest and the wisest, but never before with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and feelings gushed up with such a natural freedom, and who made great truths so familiar by his simple utterance of them. Angels seemed to have wrought with him at his labour in the fields; angels seemed to have sat with him by the fireside; and dwelling with angels as friend with friends, he had imbibed the sublimity of their ideas, and imbued it with the sweet and lowly charm of household words. thought the poet. And Ernest, on the other hand, was moved and agitated by the living images which the poet flung out of his mind; and which peopled all the air about the cottage door with shapes of beauty, both gay and pensive.

So

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, and examined his features with anxious scrutiny; then turned towards the Great Stone Face; then back, with an uncertain aspect, to his guest. But his countenance fell; he shook his head, and sighed.

At the hour of sunset, Ernest was to discourse to an assemblage of the neighbouring inhabitants in the open air. He and the poet, arm in arm, proceeded to the spot. When Ernest began to speak, his words had power, because they

accorded with his thoughts; and his thoughts had reality and depth, because they harmonized with the life 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 reverently at the venerable man, and said within himself that never was there an aspect so worthy of a prophet and sage as that mild, sweet, thoughtful countenance, with the glory of white hair diffused about it.

As the poet gazed upon the preacher's face, he saw that the prophecy was at last fulfilled. By an irresistible impulse, he threw his arms aloft, and shouted,

"Behold! behold!-the likeness of the Great Stone Face!"

LANGUAGE OF THE EYE.

THE eye reveals what the spirit is doing, what it has done, and what it aims at doing. It discovers the history of the soul to one who has skill to read its meaning. The biography of each human being is insensibly written by each thought, word, and deed, and the eye is the glass in which it may be most clearly seen.

Man cannot fix his eye on the sun, and so far seems imperfect. In Siberia a late traveller found men who