Perhaps
now he knows the All-love, and needs not to be wise. Sleep,
then, child,--sleep till I sleep and waken to a baby voice and
the ceaseless patter of little feet--above the Veil.
XII
Of Alexander Crummell
Then from the Dawn it seemed there came, but faint
As from beyond the limit of the world,
Like the last echo born of a great cry,
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
Around a king returning from his wars.
TENNYSON.
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.
I saw Alexander Crummell first at a Wilberforce com-
mencement season, amid its bustle and crush. Tall, frail, and
black he stood, with simple dignity and an unmistakable air
of good breeding.
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