Alexander Crummell

This is the story of a human heart,—the tale of a black boy who many long years ago began to struggle with life that he might know the world and know himself. Three temptations he met on those dark dunes that lay gray and dismal before the wonder-eyes of the child: the temptation of Hate, that stood out against the red dawn; the temptation of Despair, that darkened noonday; and the temptation of Doubt, that ever steals along with twilight. Above all, you must hear of the vales he crossed,—the Valley of Humiliation and the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

This is the story of a human heart, the story of a black boy. Many long years ago, he began to struggle with life so he could understand the world and himself. He faced three temptations on the dark dunes that stretched gray and bleak before his wondering eyes. The temptation of Hate stood against the red dawn. The temptation of Despair darkened midday. And the temptation of Doubt always creeps in with twilight. Above all, you must hear about the valleys he crossed: the Valley of Humiliation and the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

I saw Alexander Crummell first at a Wilberforce commencement season, amid its bustle and crush. Tall, frail, and black he stood, with simple dignity and an unmistakable air of good breeding. I talked with him apart, where the storming of the lusty young orators could not harm us. I spoke to him politely, then curiously, then eagerly, as I began to feel the fineness of his character,—his calm courtesy, the sweetness of his strength, and his fair blending of the hope and truth of life. Instinctively I bowed before this man, as one bows before the prophets of the world. Some seer he seemed, that came not from the crimson Past or the gray To-come, but from the pulsing Now,—that mocking world which seemed to me at once so light and dark, so splendid and sordid. Fourscore years had he wandered in this same world of mine, within the Veil.

I first saw Alexander Crummell amid the bustle and crowds of commencement at Wilberforce. He stood tall, frail, and black, with simple dignity and the unmistakable air of a well-bred man. I spoke with him away from the crowd, where the forceful speeches of energetic young orators could not disturb us. I spoke politely at first, then curiously, then eagerly, as I began to sense the fineness of his character. I felt his calm courtesy, the gentleness of his strength, and his beautiful balance of life's hope and truth. Instinctively, I bowed before him as one bows before the world's prophets. He seemed like a seer who came not from the crimson Past or the gray Future, but from the pulsing Present. To me, the mocking world of that Present seemed both light and dark, both splendid and sordid. For eighty years he had wandered in this same world of mine, within the Veil.

He was born with the Missouri Compromise and lay a-dying amid the echoes of Manila and El Caney: stirring times for living, times dark to look back upon, darker to look forward to. The black-faced lad that paused over his mud and marbles seventy years ago saw puzzling vistas as he looked down the world. The slave-ship still groaned across the Atlantic, faint cries burdened the Southern breeze, and the great black father whispered mad tales of cruelty into those young ears. From the low doorway the mother silently watched her boy at play, and at nightfall sought him eagerly lest the shadows bear him away to the land of slaves.

He was born at the time of the Missouri Compromise. He lay dying as the echoes of Manila and El Caney still rang out. These were stirring times to live through, dark to look back on, and darker still to look ahead to. Seventy years ago, the black boy paused over his mud and marbles and saw a puzzling world ahead. Slave ships still groaned across the Atlantic, and faint cries filled the Southern breeze. The big black father whispered wild tales of cruelty into the boy’s young ears. From the low doorway, the mother silently watched her boy at play. At nightfall, she anxiously searched for him, fearing the shadows might carry him away to the land of slaves.

So his young mind worked and winced and shaped curiously a vision of Life; and in the midst of that vision ever stood one dark figure alone,—ever with the hard, thick countenance of that bitter father, and a form that fell in vast and shapeless folds. Thus the temptation of Hate grew and shadowed the growing child,—gliding stealthily into his laughter, fading into his play, and seizing his dreams by day and night with rough, rude turbulence. So the black boy asked of sky and sun and flower the never-answered Why? and loved, as he grew, neither the world nor the world’s rough ways.

So his young mind struggled and flinched, shaping a strange vision of life. And at the center of that vision, one dark figure always stood alone. The figure always had that bitter father’s hard, heavy face, and a body draped in vast, shapeless folds. So the temptation to hate grew and cast its shadow over the growing child. It slipped secretly into his laughter, faded into his play, and seized his dreams by day and night with rough violence. So the black boy asked the sky, the sun, and the flowers the question never answered: Why? And as he grew, he loved neither the world nor its harsh ways.

Strange temptation for a child, you may think; and yet in this wide land to-day a thousand thousand dark children brood before this same temptation, and feel its cold and shuddering arms. For them, perhaps, some one will some day lift the Veil,—will come tenderly and cheerily into those sad little lives and brush the brooding hate away, just as Beriah Green strode in upon the life of Alexander Crummell. And before the bluff, kind-hearted man the shadow seemed less dark. Beriah Green had a school in Oneida County, New York, with a score of mischievous boys. “I’m going to bring a black boy here to educate,” said Beriah Green, as only a crank and an abolitionist would have dared to say. “Oho!” laughed the boys. “Ye-es,” said his wife; and Alexander came. Once before, the black boy had sought a school, had travelled, cold and hungry, four hundred miles up into free New Hampshire, to Canaan. But the godly farmers hitched ninety yoke of oxen to the abolition schoolhouse and dragged it into the middle of the swamp. The black boy trudged away.

You may think this a strange temptation for a child. Yet today, across this vast land, a million Black children brood over the same temptation and feel its cold, shuddering arms. Perhaps someone will someday lift the Veil for them. Perhaps someone will enter those sad little lives gently and cheerfully and brush away the brooding hatred. That is just how Beriah Green strode into the life of Alexander Crummell. In the presence of this blunt, kindhearted man, the shadow seemed less dark. Beriah Green ran a school in Oneida County, New York, with twenty mischievous boys. “I’m going to bring a Black boy here to educate,” said Beriah Green. Only an eccentric abolitionist would have dared to say such a thing. “Oho!” laughed the boys. “Ye-es,” said his wife. And Alexander came. Once before, the Black boy had looked for a school. Cold and hungry, he had traveled four hundred miles north to Canaan, in the free state of New Hampshire. But the godly farmers hitched ninety pairs of oxen to the abolitionist schoolhouse and dragged it into the swamp’s center. The Black boy trudged away.

The nineteenth was the first century of human sympathy,—the age when half wonderingly we began to descry in others that transfigured spark of divinity which we call Myself; when clodhoppers and peasants, and tramps and thieves, and millionaires and—sometimes—Negroes, became throbbing souls whose warm pulsing life touched us so nearly that we half gasped with surprise, crying, “Thou too! Hast Thou seen Sorrow and the dull waters of Hopelessness? Hast Thou known Life?” And then all helplessly we peered into those Other-worlds, and wailed, “O World of Worlds, how shall man make you one?”

The nineteenth century was the first century of human sympathy. With some wonder, we began to glimpse in others that radiant spark of divinity we call Myself. Farm laborers and peasants, tramps and thieves, millionaires and (sometimes) Negroes became living, feeling souls to us. Their warm, pulsing lives touched us so closely that we almost gasped in surprise, crying, “You too! Have you seen Sorrow and the dull waters of Hopelessness? Have you known Life?” And then, utterly helpless, we peered into those Other-worlds and cried, “O World of Worlds, how can humanity make you one?”

So in that little Oneida school there came to those schoolboys a revelation of thought and longing beneath one black skin, of which they had not dreamed before. And to the lonely boy came a new dawn of sympathy and inspiration. The shadowy, formless thing—the temptation of Hate, that hovered between him and the world—grew fainter and less sinister. It did not wholly fade away, but diffused itself and lingered thick at the edges. Through it the child now first saw the blue and gold of life,—the sun-swept road that ran ’twixt heaven and earth until in one far-off wan wavering line they met and kissed. A vision of life came to the growing boy,—mystic, wonderful. He raised his head, stretched himself, breathed deep of the fresh new air. Yonder, behind the forests, he heard strange sounds; then glinting through the trees he saw, far, far away, the bronzed hosts of a nation calling,—calling faintly, calling loudly. He heard the hateful clank of their chains; he felt them cringe and grovel, and there rose within him a protest and a prophecy. And he girded himself to walk down the world.

So in that little Oneida school, the schoolboys discovered thoughts and longings beneath one boy’s black skin. They had never imagined those thoughts and longings before. And for the lonely boy, a new day of sympathy and inspiration began. A shadowy, shapeless thing had hovered between him and the world: the temptation of Hate. Now that shadow grew fainter and less threatening. The shadow did not disappear completely, but spread out and remained thick at the edges. Through the shadow, the child now saw, for the first time, the blue and gold of life. He saw the sunlit road running between heaven and earth. Far away, heaven and earth met and kissed along one pale, wavering line. A vision of life came to the growing boy, mysterious and wonderful. He lifted his head, stretched, and breathed deeply of the fresh new air. Beyond the forests, he heard strange sounds. Then, far, far away, he saw the bronze-colored multitudes of a nation gleaming through the trees. They were calling, sometimes faintly, sometimes loudly. He heard the hateful clank of their chains. He felt them shrink back and grovel, and a protest and a prophecy rose within him. And he prepared himself to walk out into the world.

A voice and vision called him to be a priest,—a seer to lead the uncalled out of the house of bondage. He saw the headless host turn toward him like the whirling of mad waters,—he stretched forth his hands eagerly, and then, even as he stretched them, suddenly there swept across the vision the temptation of Despair.

A voice and a vision called him to become a priest, a seer who would lead the uncalled out of slavery. He saw the leaderless crowd turn toward him like swirling, raging waters. He eagerly reached out his hands. But just as he reached out, the temptation of Despair suddenly swept across the vision.

They were not wicked men,—the problem of life is not the problem of the wicked,—they were calm, good men, Bishops of the Apostolic Church of God, and strove toward righteousness. They said slowly, “It is all very natural—it is even commendable; but the General Theological Seminary of the Episcopal Church cannot admit a Negro.” And when that thin, half-grotesque figure still haunted their doors, they put their hands kindly, half sorrowfully, on his shoulders, and said, “Now,—of course, we—we know how you feel about it; but you see it is impossible,—that is—well—it is premature. Sometime, we trust—sincerely trust—all such distinctions will fade away; but now the world is as it is.”

They were not wicked men. Life’s problem is not the problem of wicked people. They were calm, good men, Bishops of the Apostolic Church of God, and they worked to live righteously. They said slowly, “It is all very natural. It is even admirable. But the General Theological Seminary of the Episcopal Church cannot admit a Negro.” And when that thin, almost grotesque figure still lingered at their doors, they placed their hands on his shoulders. Their touch was kind and somewhat sorrowful, and they said, “Now, of course, we, we know how you feel about it. But you see, it is impossible. That is, well, it is too soon. Someday, we trust, sincerely trust, all such distinctions will disappear. But for now, the world is as it is.”

This was the temptation of Despair; and the young man fought it doggedly. Like some grave shadow he flitted by those halls, pleading, arguing, half angrily demanding admittance, until there came the final No; until men hustled the disturber away, marked him as foolish, unreasonable, and injudicious, a vain rebel against God’s law. And then from that Vision Splendid all the glory faded slowly away, and left an earth gray and stern rolling on beneath a dark despair. Even the kind hands that stretched themselves toward him from out the depths of that dull morning seemed but parts of the purple shadows. He saw them coldly, and asked, “Why should I strive by special grace when the way of the world is closed to me?” All gently yet, the hands urged him on,—the hands of young John Jay, that daring father’s daring son; the hands of the good folk of Boston, that free city. And yet, with a way to the priesthood of the Church open at last before him, the cloud lingered there; and even when in old St. Paul’s the venerable Bishop raised his white arms above the Negro deacon—even then the burden had not lifted from that heart, for there had passed a glory from the earth.

This was the temptation of Despair, and the young man fought it stubbornly. Like a solemn shadow, he moved through those halls, pleading, arguing, and demanding admission with barely restrained anger. At last came the final No. Men pushed the troublemaker away. They called him foolish, unreasonable, and lacking judgment, a man rebelling in vain against God’s law. Then all the glory of that Vision Splendid slowly faded away. It left a gray, harsh earth rolling on beneath a dark despair. Even the kind hands reaching toward him from the depths of that bleak morning seemed only parts of the purple shadows. He looked at those hands coldly and asked, “Why should I struggle for a special favor when the world’s path is closed to me?” Still, the hands gently urged him on. They were the hands of young John Jay, the daring son of a daring father. They were the hands of the good people of Boston, that free city. Yet even with a path to the priesthood of the Church finally open before him, the cloud remained. In old St. Paul’s, the elderly Bishop raised his white arms above the Negro deacon. Even then, the burden had not lifted from the young man’s heart, for a glory had vanished from the earth.

And yet the fire through which Alexander Crummell went did not burn in vain. Slowly and more soberly he took up again his plan of life. More critically he studied the situation. Deep down below the slavery and servitude of the Negro people he saw their fatal weaknesses, which long years of mistreatment had emphasized. The dearth of strong moral character, of unbending righteousness, he felt, was their great shortcoming, and here he would begin. He would gather the best of his people into some little Episcopal chapel and there lead, teach, and inspire them, till the leaven spread, till the children grew, till the world hearkened, till—till—and then across his dream gleamed some faint after-glow of that first fair vision of youth—only an after-glow, for there had passed a glory from the earth.

And yet the fire Alexander Crummell had passed through had not burned in vain. Slowly and more thoughtfully, he returned to his plan for his life. He studied the situation more critically. Beneath the slavery and servitude of Black people, he saw their fatal weaknesses, deepened by years of mistreatment. Their great shortcoming, he felt, was a lack of strong moral character and unwavering righteousness. Here he would begin. He would gather the best of his people in a small Episcopal chapel. There he would lead, teach, and inspire them until their influence spread, until the children grew, until the world listened. Until, until... Then a faint afterglow of his first beautiful youthful vision shone across his dream. Only an afterglow, for a glory had passed from the earth.

One day—it was in 1842, and the springtide was struggling merrily with the May winds of New England—he stood at last in his own chapel in Providence, a priest of the Church. The days sped by, and the dark young clergyman labored; he wrote his sermons carefully; he intoned his prayers with a soft, earnest voice; he haunted the streets and accosted the wayfarers; he visited the sick, and knelt beside the dying. He worked and toiled, week by week, day by day, month by month. And yet month by month the congregation dwindled, week by week the hollow walls echoed more sharply, day by day the calls came fewer and fewer, and day by day the third temptation sat clearer and still more clearly within the Veil; a temptation, as it were, bland and smiling, with just a shade of mockery in its smooth tones. First it came casually, in the cadence of a voice: “Oh, colored folks? Yes.” Or perhaps more definitely: “What do you expect?” In voice and gesture lay the doubt—the temptation of Doubt. How he hated it, and stormed at it furiously! “Of course they are capable,” he cried; “of course they can learn and strive and achieve—” and “Of course,” added the temptation softly, “they do nothing of the sort.” Of all the three temptations, this one struck the deepest. Hate? He had outgrown so childish a thing. Despair? He had steeled his right arm against it, and fought it with the vigor of determination. But to doubt the worth of his life-work,—to doubt the destiny and capability of the race his soul loved because it was his; to find listless squalor instead of eager endeavor; to hear his own lips whispering, “They do not care; they cannot know; they are dumb driven cattle,—why cast your pearls before swine?”—this, this seemed more than man could bear; and he closed the door, and sank upon the steps of the chancel, and cast his robe upon the floor and writhed.

One day in 1842, he finally stood in his own chapel in Providence, a priest of the Church. Outside, spring struggled merrily with the May winds of New England. The days flew by, and the young Black clergyman worked hard. He wrote his sermons carefully. He spoke his prayers in a soft, earnest voice. He roamed the streets and approached people passing by. He visited the sick and knelt beside the dying. He worked and struggled, week by week, day by day, month by month. Yet month by month, the congregation shrank. Week by week, the hollow walls echoed more sharply. Day by day, fewer and fewer calls came. And day by day, the third temptation appeared more clearly within the Veil. This temptation seemed pleasant and smiling, with just a hint of mockery in its smooth voice. At first, it came casually, in the tone of someone’s voice: “Oh, colored folks? Yes.” Or perhaps more directly: “What do you expect?” The doubt lay in the voice and gestures. It was the temptation of Doubt. How he hated that doubt and raged against it! “Of course they are capable,” he cried. “Of course they can learn and strive and achieve.” And “Of course,” the temptation added softly, “they do nothing of the sort.” Of all three temptations, this one struck deepest. Hate? He had outgrown so childish a thing. Despair? He had strengthened his right arm against despair and fought it with fierce determination. But to doubt the worth of his life’s work was another matter. To doubt the future and abilities of the race his soul loved because it was his own. To find apathy and filthy poverty instead of eager effort. To hear his own lips whispering, “They do not care. They cannot understand. They are mindless cattle driven along. Why cast your pearls before swine?” This doubt seemed more than anyone could bear. He closed the door and sank onto the steps leading to the altar. He threw his robe onto the floor and writhed.

The evening sunbeams had set the dust to dancing in the gloomy chapel when he arose. He folded his vestments, put away the hymn-books, and closed the great Bible. He stepped out into the twilight, looked back upon the narrow little pulpit with a weary smile, and locked the door. Then he walked briskly to the Bishop, and told the Bishop what the Bishop already knew. “I have failed,” he said simply. And gaining courage by the confession, he added: “What I need is a larger constituency. There are comparatively few Negroes here, and perhaps they are not of the best. I must go where the field is wider, and try again.” So the Bishop sent him to Philadelphia, with a letter to Bishop Onderdonk.

The evening sunlight made the dust dance in the dim chapel as he stood up. He folded his robes, put away the hymnbooks, and closed the large Bible. He stepped out into the twilight and looked back at the small, narrow pulpit with a weary smile. Then he locked the door. He walked briskly to the Bishop and told him what the Bishop already knew. “I have failed,” he said simply. The confession gave him courage, and he added: “What I need is a larger community to serve. There are relatively few Black people here, and perhaps they are not the best. I must go where there is more opportunity and try again.” So the Bishop sent him to Philadelphia with a letter to Bishop Onderdonk.

Bishop Onderdonk lived at the head of six white steps,—corpulent, red-faced, and the author of several thrilling tracts on Apostolic Succession. It was after dinner, and the Bishop had settled himself for a pleasant season of contemplation, when the bell must needs ring, and there must burst in upon the Bishop a letter and a thin, ungainly Negro. Bishop Onderdonk read the letter hastily and frowned. Fortunately, his mind was already clear on this point; and he cleared his brow and looked at Crummell. Then he said, slowly and impressively: “I will receive you into this diocese on one condition: no Negro priest can sit in my church convention, and no Negro church must ask for representation there.”

Bishop Onderdonk lived at the top of six white steps. He was fat, red-faced, and the author of several thrilling pamphlets on Apostolic Succession. Dinner was over, and the Bishop had settled in for a pleasant time of reflection. Then, of course, the bell had to ring, and a thin, awkward Negro burst in with a letter. Bishop Onderdonk read the letter quickly and frowned. Fortunately, he had already made up his mind on the matter. His frown cleared, and he looked at Crummell. Then he said, slowly and with great emphasis: “I will accept you into this diocese on one condition: no Negro priest can sit in my church convention, and no Negro church must ask for representation there.”

I sometimes fancy I can see that tableau: the frail black figure, nervously twitching his hat before the massive abdomen of Bishop Onderdonk; his threadbare coat thrown against the dark woodwork of the bookcases, where Fox’s “Lives of the Martyrs” nestled happily beside “The Whole Duty of Man.” I seem to see the wide eyes of the Negro wander past the Bishop’s broadcloth to where the swinging glass doors of the cabinet glow in the sunlight. A little blue fly is trying to cross the yawning keyhole. He marches briskly up to it, peers into the chasm in a surprised sort of way, and rubs his feelers reflectively; then he essays its depths, and, finding it bottomless, draws back again. The dark-faced priest finds himself wondering if the fly too has faced its Valley of Humiliation, and if it will plunge into it,—when lo! it spreads its tiny wings and buzzes merrily across, leaving the watcher wingless and alone.

Sometimes I imagine I can see that scene: the frail black man nervously fidgeting with his hat before Bishop Onderdonk’s enormous belly. His worn coat stands out against the dark wood of the bookcases. There, Fox’s “Lives of the Martyrs” sits comfortably beside “The Whole Duty of Man.” I seem to see the black man’s wide eyes wander past the Bishop’s fine wool suit. His gaze reaches the cabinet’s glass doors, which swing open and glow in the sunlight. A little blue fly is trying to cross the gaping keyhole. The fly marches briskly up to the opening, peers into the chasm in apparent surprise, and thoughtfully rubs his feelers. Then he tries the depths and, finding them bottomless, pulls back again. The dark-faced priest finds himself wondering whether the fly too has faced its Valley of Humiliation. He wonders whether the fly will plunge into that valley. Then, suddenly, the fly spreads its tiny wings and buzzes happily across, leaving the watcher wingless and alone.

Then the full weight of his burden fell upon him. The rich walls wheeled away, and before him lay the cold rough moor winding on through life, cut in twain by one thick granite ridge,—here, the Valley of Humiliation; yonder, the Valley of the Shadow of Death. And I know not which be darker,—no, not I. But this I know: in yonder Vale of the Humble stand to-day a million swarthy men, who willingly would

Then the full weight of his burden fell on him. The rich walls spun away. Before him lay the cold, rough moor, winding through life, split in two by one thick granite ridge. Here lay the Valley of Humiliation. Over there lay the Valley of the Shadow of Death. And I do not know which valley is darker. No, I do not. But I know this: in that Vale of the Humble today stand a million dark-skinned men, who would willingly

all this and more would they bear did they but know that this were sacrifice and not a meaner thing. So surged the thought within that lone black breast. The Bishop cleared his throat suggestively; then, recollecting that there was really nothing to say, considerately said nothing, only sat tapping his foot impatiently. But Alexander Crummell said, slowly and heavily: “I will never enter your diocese on such terms.” And saying this, he turned and passed into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. You might have noted only the physical dying, the shattered frame and hacking cough; but in that soul lay deeper death than that. He found a chapel in New York,—the church of his father; he labored for it in poverty and starvation, scorned by his fellow priests. Half in despair, he wandered across the sea, a beggar with outstretched hands. Englishmen clasped them,—Wilberforce and Stanley, Thirwell and Ingles, and even Froude and Macaulay; Sir Benjamin Brodie bade him rest awhile at Queen’s College in Cambridge, and there he lingered, struggling for health of body and mind, until he took his degree in ’53. Restless still, and unsatisfied, he turned toward Africa, and for long years, amid the spawn of the slave-smugglers, sought a new heaven and a new earth.

They would bear all this and more if they only knew it was sacrifice and not something more degrading. Such thoughts surged within that lonely Black man’s heart. The Bishop cleared his throat as if about to speak. Then, remembering there was really nothing to say, he considerately said nothing. He only sat tapping his foot impatiently. But Alexander Crummell said, slowly and heavily: “I will never enter your diocese on such terms.” With those words, he turned and entered the Valley of the Shadow of Death. You might have noticed only his physical decline, his broken body and hacking cough. But a deeper death lay within his soul. He found a chapel in New York, his father’s church. He worked for the chapel in poverty and starvation, scorned by his fellow priests. Nearly despairing, he wandered across the sea, a beggar with outstretched hands. Englishmen clasped his hands: Wilberforce and Stanley, Thirwell and Ingles, and even Froude and Macaulay. Sir Benjamin Brodie urged him to rest awhile at Queen’s College in Cambridge. There he stayed, struggling to regain his physical and mental health, until he earned his degree in 1853. Still restless and unsatisfied, he turned toward Africa. There, for many years, among the offspring of slave smugglers, he sought a new heaven and a new earth.

So the man groped for light; all this was not Life,—it was the world-wandering of a soul in search of itself, the striving of one who vainly sought his place in the world, ever haunted by the shadow of a death that is more than death,—the passing of a soul that has missed its duty. Twenty years he wandered,—twenty years and more; and yet the hard rasping question kept gnawing within him, “What, in God’s name, am I on earth for?” In the narrow New York parish his soul seemed cramped and smothered. In the fine old air of the English University he heard the millions wailing over the sea. In the wild fever-cursed swamps of West Africa he stood helpless and alone.

So the man searched blindly for light. All this was not life. It was a soul wandering the world in search of itself, struggling in vain to find its place. He was always haunted by the shadow of a death worse than death: a soul dying without fulfilling its duty. For twenty years he wandered, twenty years and more. Yet the harsh question kept gnawing at him: “What, in God’s name, am I on earth for?” In the small New York parish, his soul seemed cramped and smothered. In the English University’s grand old atmosphere, he heard the millions crying out across the sea. In the wild, fever-ridden swamps of West Africa, he stood helpless and alone.

You will not wonder at his weird pilgrimage,—you who in the swift whirl of living, amid its cold paradox and marvellous vision, have fronted life and asked its riddle face to face. And if you find that riddle hard to read, remember that yonder black boy finds it just a little harder; if it is difficult for you to find and face your duty, it is a shade more difficult for him; if your heart sickens in the blood and dust of battle, remember that to him the dust is thicker and the battle fiercer. No wonder the wanderers fall! No wonder we point to thief and murderer, and haunting prostitute, and the never-ending throng of unhearsed dead! The Valley of the Shadow of Death gives few of its pilgrims back to the world.

You will not be surprised by his strange pilgrimage, you who have faced life and confronted its riddle. You have done so amid life's dizzying rush, its cold contradictions and marvelous vision. And if you find life's riddle hard to solve, remember that the black boy over there finds it a little harder. If you struggle to recognize and face your duty, doing so is slightly harder for him. If your heart grows sick amid the blood and dust of battle, remember that he faces thicker dust and fiercer fighting. No wonder the wanderers fall! No wonder we point to the thief, the murderer, the haunting prostitute, and the endless crowd of dead without hearses! The Valley of the Shadow of Death returns few of its pilgrims to the world.

But Alexander Crummell it gave back. Out of the temptation of Hate, and burned by the fire of Despair, triumphant over Doubt, and steeled by Sacrifice against Humiliation, he turned at last home across the waters, humble and strong, gentle and determined. He bent to all the gibes and prejudices, to all hatred and discrimination, with that rare courtesy which is the armor of pure souls. He fought among his own, the low, the grasping, and the wicked, with that unbending righteousness which is the sword of the just. He never faltered, he seldom complained; he simply worked, inspiring the young, rebuking the old, helping the weak, guiding the strong.

But it gave Alexander Crummell back. He had escaped the temptation of Hate, been burned by the fire of Despair, and triumphed over Doubt. Sacrifice had strengthened him against Humiliation. At last he returned home across the waters, humble and strong, gentle and determined. He faced all the insults and prejudices, all the hatred and discrimination, with rare courtesy, the armor of pure souls. Among his own people, he fought the low, the greedy, and the wicked with unwavering righteousness, the sword of the just. He never faltered and seldom complained. He simply worked, inspiring the young, correcting the old, helping the weak, and guiding the strong.

So he grew, and brought within his wide influence all that was best of those who walk within the Veil. They who live without knew not nor dreamed of that full power within, that mighty inspiration which the dull gauze of caste decreed that most men should not know. And now that he is gone, I sweep the Veil away and cry, Lo! the soul to whose dear memory I bring this little tribute. I can see his face still, dark and heavy-lined beneath his snowy hair; lighting and shading, now with inspiration for the future, now in innocent pain at some human wickedness, now with sorrow at some hard memory from the past. The more I met Alexander Crummell, the more I felt how much that world was losing which knew so little of him. In another age he might have sat among the elders of the land in purple-bordered toga; in another country mothers might have sung him to the cradles.

So he grew, and his broad influence reached all the best among those who live within the Veil. Those outside the Veil neither knew nor imagined the full power within it, or the mighty inspiration there. The dull haze of caste kept most people from knowing that power and inspiration. And now that he is gone, I sweep the Veil aside and cry: Look! Here is the soul to whose cherished memory I offer this small tribute. I can still see his face, dark and deeply lined beneath his snow-white hair. His expression shifted between light and shadow. At times, he glowed with inspiration for the future. At others, he showed innocent pain at some human wickedness, or sorrow at some painful memory from the past. The more I met Alexander Crummell, the more I felt how much the world lost by knowing so little of him. In another age, he might have sat among the elders of the land in a purple-bordered toga. In another country, mothers might have sung of him beside their babies’ cradles.

He did his work,—he did it nobly and well; and yet I sorrow that here he worked alone, with so little human sympathy. His name to-day, in this broad land, means little, and comes to fifty million ears laden with no incense of memory or emulation. And herein lies the tragedy of the age: not that men are poor,—all men know something of poverty; not that men are wicked,—who is good? not that men are ignorant,—what is Truth? Nay, but that men know so little of men.

He did his work, and he did it nobly and well. Yet I grieve that he worked here alone, with so little sympathy from others. Today, his name means little in this vast land. Fifty million people hear his name without honoring his memory or feeling inspired to follow his example. And here lies the tragedy of our age: not that people are poor, for all people know something of poverty. Not that people are wicked, for who is good? Not that people are ignorant, for what is Truth? No, the tragedy is that people know so little about one another.

He sat one morning gazing toward the sea. He smiled and said, “The gate is rusty on the hinges.” That night at star-rise a wind came moaning out of the west to blow the gate ajar, and then the soul I loved fled like a flame across the Seas, and in its seat sat Death.

One morning he sat gazing toward the sea. He smiled and said, “The gate’s hinges are rusty.” That night, as the stars appeared, a wind came moaning from the west and blew the gate partly open. Then the soul I loved fled like a flame across the Seas, and Death sat in its place.

I wonder where he is to-day? I wonder if in that dim world beyond, as he came gliding in, there rose on some wan throne a King,—a dark and pierced Jew, who knows the writhings of the earthly damned, saying, as he laid those heart-wrung talents down, “Well done!” while round about the morning stars sat singing.

I wonder where he is today? I wonder if, as he glided into that dim world beyond, a King rose from some pale throne. A dark, pierced Jew, who knows the agonies of the damned on earth. Did the King say, “Well done!” as he laid down the talents wrung from his heart, while the morning stars sat singing all around?