Again Robert Annys recalled that text as he stood this time before the Cathedral. But no longer it agonized him as on that night when he lay prone among the rushes. Now he saw deeper into the heart of things. He saw that the fruit of the tree is the fruit not alone of the leafy bough on which it hangs, nor alone of the strong, gnarled trunk, nor alone of the roots, deep down and hidden; but that it is borne alike of the kernel that has taken many seasons to reach the height of a man, alike of the very rainfalls that have fed the roots with the salts of the soil. Who indeed shall ever account for all the forces that have gone to redden its cheeks and sweeten its juices?
The Uprising had failed because the people were not yet ready for success. They had failed in self-command, and therefore had grievously failed to command others. It was hard to look into the future with any show of bravery when one realized how much, how much the people must learn, how much work there was to be done by a few strong, patient souls. And yet, to Robert Annys the very failure of the Uprising had within it something precious. He believed that if no slightest seed may fall to the ground unheeded, surely the earnest efforts of thousands upon thousands of men could not be suffered to fall barren upon Eternity.
And he was right. Who shall ever say all that was done or not done by that wonderful outspeaking of the heart of the English peasantry more than half a thousand years ago—that stirring voice sinking again into silence as mysteriously as it arose? And yet who shall say that it was hushed? Is it not nearer the truth to say that it was held in the air, vibrating down through the centuries, silent unto Man, only until such time as his ears were attuned to hearken?
Indeed, easier is it to trace the tall waving corn back to the tiny, hard grain that was tossed upon the waiting earth; easier to trace the proud mast that cleaves the air high up over the seas, back to the pine cone's quiet fall; easier to trace the broad flowing river, ship-studded, artery of great, toiling cities, to the hidden pool where the trout leap and the deer come down to drink,—than to trace through the remotest Past the mysterious ebb and flow, the wonderful crossing and recrossing, of the springs of Human Action.
In truth no historian may ever tell of the end of the Great Uprising, for it had no end, but it goeth ever on and on.
THE HERITAGE OF UNREST
BY
GWENDOLEN OVERTON
Cloth. 12mo. $1.50
A novel of the army on the frontier during the time of the Indian outbreaks under Geronimo and others in the late seventies. Historically the book is valuable—though this is nearly forgotten in its interest—as a picture of scenes that can never be repeated; a book which American social literature could ill afford to lose—while it is also an absorbing love story.
"A picture of the great West—the West of the days of the Apache raids—clear and vivid."—Baltimore Sun.
"'The Heritage of Unrest' is a remarkable book, and in all respects it is an interesting departure from the current line of fiction. It is a story of American army life fully matching the frontier sketches of Owen Wister, and told with such touches of offhand colloquialism, now and again, as might mark the work of a Yankee Kipling."—New York World.