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In "The Uncrowned King," Harold Bell Wright crafts a compelling tale that delves into the complexities of human ambition, societal constraints, and personal integrity. Set against the backdrop of the American West, the novel unfolds through rich, descriptive prose that evokes both the rugged landscape and the emotional depth of its characters. Wright'Äôs narrative style blends vivid storytelling with profound philosophical insights, positioning the work within the context of early 20th-century American literature, where themes of individualism and moral dilemmas were prominent. Harold Bell Wright, a pioneer of the regional fiction genre, drew inspiration from his own experiences as a preacher and as a resident of the American frontier. His deep understanding of human nature and societal structures infuses this novel with authenticity and relatability. Wright's ability to capture the struggles of his characters serves as a mirror to the challenges faced by society during his time, mirroring concerns of redemption and the pursuit of personal truth. This book is highly recommended for readers who appreciate a thoughtful exploration of character and morality entwined with an engaging narrative. Fans of early American literature will find in "The Uncrowned King" not only a reflection of its era but also an enduring commentary on the human condition, making it a salient read that resonates even today.
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CONTENTSThe Pilgrim and His PilgrimageThe Voice of the WavesThe Voice of the Evening WindThe Voice of the NightThe 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?"