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 fal-
tered, he seldom complained; he simply worked, inspiring the
young, rebuking the old, helping the weak, 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.
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