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.
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.
Pages:
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291