the Veil
and set the prisoned free. Not for me,--I shall die in my bonds,--but
for fresh young souls who have not known the night and waken to the
morning; a morning when men ask of the workman, not "Is he white?" but
"Can he work?" When men ask artists, not "Are they black?" but "Do
they know?" Some morning this may be, long, long years to come. But
now there wails, on that dark shore within the Veil, the same deep
voice, THOU SHALT FOREGO! And all have I foregone at that command, and
with small complaint,--all save that fair young form that lies so
coldly wed with death in the nest I had builded.

If one must have gone, why not I? Why may I not rest me from this
restlessness and sleep from this wide waking? Was not the world's
alembic, Time, in his young hands, and is not my time waning? Are
there so many workers in the vineyard that the fair promise of this
little body could lightly be tossed away? The wretched of my race that
line the alleys of the nation sit fatherless and unmothered; but Love
sat beside his cradle, and in his ear Wisdom waited to speak. 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 commencement season,
amid its bustle and crush. Tall, frail, and black he stood, with
simple dignity and an unmistakable air of good breeding. I talked with
him apart, where the storming of the lusty young orators could not harm
us. I spoke to him politely, then curiously, then eagerly, as I