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
" . . . bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,"--
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 heav-
ily: "I will never enter your diocese on such terms." And
saying this, he turned and passed into the Valley of the
Shadow of Death.
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