Uncle tom's cabin - online children's book

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LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY             289
as an orange, or trod on Ireland as quietly and systemat­ically as any man living. At last my mother gave up, in despair. It never will be known, till the last account, what noble and sensitive natures like hers have felt, cast, utterly helpless, into what seems to them an abyss of injus­tice and cruelty, and which seems so to nobody about them. It has been an age of long sorrow of such natures, in such a hell-begotten sort of world as ours. What remained for her, but to train her children in her own views and senti­ments? Well, after all you say about training, children will grow up substantially what they are by nature, and only that. From the cradle, Alfred was an aristocrat; and as he grew up, instinctively all his sympathies and all his reasonings were in that line, and all mother's exhorta­tions went to the winds. As to me, they sunk deep into me. She never contradicted, in form, anything that my father said, or seemed directly to differ from him; but she impressed, burnt into my very soul, with all the force of her deep, earnest nature, an idea of the dignity and worth - of the meanest human soul. I have looked in her face with solemn awe, when she would point up to the stars in the evening, and say to me, ' See there, Auguste, the poorest, meanest soul on our place will be living, when all these stars are gone forever, — will live as long as God lives!'
" She had some fine old paintings; one, in particular, of Jesus healing a blind man. They were very fine, and used to impress me strongly. ' See there, Auguste,' she would say; ' the blind man was a beggar, poor and loath­some ; therefore, He would not heal him afar off! He called him to Him, and put his hands on him ! Remem­ber this, my boy.' If I had lived to grow up under her care, she might have stimulated me to I know not what of enthusiasm. I might have been a saint, reformer, martyr, — but, alas! alas! I went from her when I was only thirteen, and I never saw her again! "
St. Clare rested his head on his hands, and did not