Often and often, have I walked through the
streets of New York, and said to myself, Among all these people, there
is not one that I can call a relation. My blood is in no man's veins,
but my own."
This was said with a bitter sadness, that surprised me. Obdurate, and
insensible to suffering as Marble had ever appeared to me, I was not
prepared to find him giving such evidence of feeling. I was then
young, but now am old; and one of the lessons learned in the years
that have intervened, is not to judge of men by appearances. So much
sensibility is hidden beneath assumed indifference, so much suffering
really exists behind smiling countenances, and so little does the
exterior tell the true story of all that is to be found within, that I
am now slow to yield credence to the lying surfaces of things. Most of
all had I learned to condemn that heartless injustice of the world,
that renders it so prompt to decide, on rumour and conjectures,
constituting itself a judge from which there shall be no appeal, in
cases in which it has not taken the trouble to examine, and which it
had not even the power to examine evidence.
"We are all of the same family, my friend," I answered, with a good
design at least, "though a little separated by time and accidents."
"Family!--Yes, I belong to my own family.
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