courage by the confession, he added: "What I need is a larger
constituency. There are comparatively few Negroes here, and perhaps
they are not of the best. I must go where the field is wider, and try
again." So the Bishop sent him to Philadelphia, with a letter to
Bishop Onderdonk.

Bishop Onderdonk lived at the head of six white steps,--corpulent,
red-faced, and the author of several thrilling tracts on Apostolic
Succession. It was after dinner, and the Bishop had settled himself
for a pleasant season of contemplation, when the bell must needs ring,
and there must burst in upon the Bishop a letter and a thin, ungainly
Negro. Bishop Onderdonk read the letter hastily and frowned.
Fortunately, his mind was already clear on this point; and he cleared
his brow and looked at Crummell. Then he said, slowly and
impressively: "I will receive you into this diocese on one condition:
no Negro priest can sit in my church convention, and no Negro church
must ask for representation there."

I sometimes fancy I can see that tableau: the frail black figure,
nervously twitching his hat before the massive abdomen of Bishop
Onderdonk; his threadbare coat thrown against the dark woodwork of the
bookcases, where Fox's "Lives of the Martyrs" nestled happily beside
"The Whole Duty of Man." I seem to see the wide eyes of the Negro
wander past the Bishop's broadcloth to where the swinging glass doors
of the cabinet glow in the sunlight. A little blue fly is trying to
cross the yawning keyhole. He marches briskly up to it, peers into the
chasm in a surprised sort of way, and rubs his feelers reflectively;
then he essays its depths, and, finding it bottomless, draws back
again. The dark-faced priest finds himself wondering if the fly too
has faced its Valley of Humiliation, and if it will plunge into
it,--when lo! it spreads its tiny wings and buzzes merrily across,
leaving the watcher wingless and alone.

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