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.
You will not wonder at his weird pilgrimage,--you who in
the swift whirl of living, amid its cold paradox and marvel-
lous 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.
But Alexander Crummell it gave back. Out of the tempta-
tion 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.
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