He listened with the lowering look of one in
whom brute instinct was sovereign for the time,--
a look that makes the noblest countenance base.
He was but a man,--a poor, untaught, outcast,
outraged man. Life had few joys for him; the
world offered him no honors, no success, no home,
no love. What future would this crime mar? and
why should he deny himself that sweet, yet bitter
morsel called revenge? How many white men,
with all New England's freedom, culture, Christianity,
would not have felt as he felt then?
Should I have reproached him for a human anguish,
a human longing for redress, all now left
him from the ruin of his few poor hopes? Who
had taught him that self-control, self-sacrifice, are
attributes that make men masters of the earth and
lift them nearer heaven? Should I have urged
the beauty of forgiveness, the duty of devout
submission? He had no religion, for he was no
saintly "Uncle Tom," and Slavery's black shadow
seemed to darken all the world to him and shut
out God.
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