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The Book That Inspired Our Village

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    Posted: Jun 05 2007 at 4:42pm
The Uncrowned King

 

 

By

 

HAROLD BELL WRIGHT

 

Illustrations By John Rea Neill

 

1910

 

To

MR. ELSBERY W. REYNOLDS

My

Publisher and Friend,

Whose belief in my work has made my

work possible, I gratefully

dedicate this tale

of

The Uncrowned King

 

Redlands, California

May forth, 1910

 

"Eyes blinded by the fog of Things cannot see Truth. Ears deafened by the din of Things cannot hear Truth. Brains bewildered by the whirl of Things cannot think Truth. Hearts deadened by the weight of Things cannot feel Truth. Throats choked by the dust of Things cannot speak Truth."

 

 ~

CONTENTS

The Pilgrim and His Pilgrimage
The Voice of The Waves
The Voice of the Evening Wind
The Voice of the Night
The Voice of the New Day

 

ILLUSTRATIONS

Drawn By

John Rea Neill

~ ~ ~

The Pilgrim and His Pilgrimage

 
For many, many, weary months the Pilgrim journeyed in the wide and pathless Desert of Facts. So many indeed were the months that the wayworn Pilgrim, himself, came at last to forget their number.

And always, for the Pilgrim, the sky by day was a sky of brass, softened not by so much as a wreath of cloud mist. Always, for him, the hot air was stirred not by so much as the lift of a wild bird's wing. Never, for him, was the awful stillness of the night broken by voice of his kind, by foot-fall of beast, or by rustle of creeping thing. For the toiling Pilgrim in the vast and pathless Desert of Facts there was no kindly face, no friendly fire. Only the stars were many--many and very near.

Day after day, as the Pilgrim labored onward, through the torturing heat, under the sky of brass, he saw on either hand lakes of living waters and groves of many palms. And the waters called him to their healing coolness: the palms beckoned him to their restful shade and shelter. Night after night, in the dreadful solitude, frightful Shapes came on silent feet out of the silent darkness to stare at him with doubtful, questioning, threatening eyes; drawing back at last, if he stood still, as silently as they had come, or, if he advanced, vanishing quickly, only to reappear as silently in another place.

But the Pilgrim knew that the enchanting scenes that lured him by day were but pictures in the heated air. He knew that the fearful Shapes that haunted him by night were but creatures of his own overwrought fancy. And so he journeyed on and ever on, in the staggering heat, under the sky of brass, in the awful stillness of the night: on and ever on, through the wide and pathless waste, until he came at last to the Outer-Edge-Of-Things--came to the place that is between the Desert of Facts and the Beautiful Sea, even as it is written in the Law of the Pilgrimage.

The tired feet of the Traveler left now the rough, hot floor of the desert for a soft, cool carpet of velvet grass all inwrought with blossoms that filled the air with fragrance. Over his head, tall trees gently shook their glistening, shadowy leaves, while sweet voiced birds of rare and wondrous plumage flitted from bough to bough. Across a sky of deepest blue, fleets of fairy cloud ships, light as feathery down, floated--floated--drifting lazily, as though, piloted only by the wind, their pilot slept. All about him, as he walked, multitudes of sunlight and shadow fairies danced gaily hand in hand. And over the shimmering surface of the Sea a thousand thousand fairy waves ran joyously, one after the other, from the sky line to the pebbly beach, making liquid music clearer and softer than the softest of clear toned bells.

And there it was, in that wondrously beautiful place, the Outer-Edge-Of-Things, that the Pilgrim found, fashioned of sheerest white, with lofty dome, towering spires, and piercing minarets lifting out of the living green, the Temple of Truth.

In reverent awe the Pilgrim stood before the sacred object of his Pilgrimage.

At last, with earnest step, the worshiper approached the holy edifice. But when he would have passed through the high arched door, his way was barred by one whose garments were white even as the whiteness of the Temple, whose eyes were clear even as the skies, and whose face shone even as the shining Beautiful Sea.

The Pilgrim, hesitating, spoke: "You are?"

The other answered in a voice that was even as the soft wind that stirred the leaves of the forest: "I am Thyself."

Then the Pilgrim--"And your office?"

"I am the appointed Keeper of the Temple of Truth; save by my permission none may enter here."

Cried the Pilgrim eagerly: "But I? I may enter? Surely I have fulfilled The Law! Surely I have paid The Price!"

"What law have you fulfilled? What price have you paid?" gently asked he in the garments of white.

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Post Options Post Options   Thanks (0) Thanks(0)   Quote s. p. a. t. Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: Jun 06 2007 at 1:02pm
That was painful!!  We uploaded some pictures from the original text, all of which are in the common domain at this time, only to find that the images were zapped and a wonderful love note admonishment in bright YELLOW was in there place.
 
We got rid of the images, we will snap our own and insert them again, and then updated the post, only to find that all of our text had been corrupted... nice try guys.
 
Mixey, tell your story of the author, like you told us.
 
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Post Options Post Options   Thanks (0) Thanks(0)   Quote toad Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: Jun 06 2007 at 3:52pm
Approve I haven't read that much since Moby Dick in high school !!!
    WOW !!Tongue
toad
Down, and nearly out in Detroit......
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Post Options Post Options   Thanks (0) Thanks(0)   Quote Various Decree Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: Jun 08 2007 at 12:06am
This story is a very good read. We know about it through Mixey. It is good to see it printed in full here. It contains many simple truths.
Various Decree
" Each Man Is His Own Monarch "
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Post Options Post Options   Thanks (0) Thanks(0)   Quote M I X E Y Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: Jun 12 2007 at 5:22am
Harold Bell Wright (1872-1944) . . .

was the best selling American author of the early 20th century. Were talking millions of copies sold at that time.

Not too many people have heard of him today. The critics didn't like him... but the people loved him.

He spoke the truth. That is why he's been zip, banned and deleted almost out of history.

I intend to bring his works back into focus.

Harold Bell Wright. . . (about)

Mixey
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Post Options Post Options   Thanks (0) Thanks(0)   Quote Soul Sister Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: Oct 30 2007 at 4:28pm
Most appropriate, guys!
 
 
 
S.S.
"Love Is The Answer" ~ Little Jeanie Scott
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