'So deeply rooted does this horror of the man appear to be,' said
Nicholas, 'that I can hardly believe he really is his son. Nature
does not seem to have implanted in his breast one lingering feeling of
affection for him, and surely she can never err.'
'My dear sir,' replied brother Charles, 'you fall into the very common
mistake of charging upon Nature, matters with which she has not the
smallest connection, and for which she is in no way responsible. Men
talk of Nature as an abstract thing, and lose sight of what is natural
while they do so. Here is a poor lad who has never felt a parent's care,
who has scarcely known anything all his life but suffering and sorrow,
presented to a man who he is told is his father, and whose first act
is to signify his intention of putting an end to his short term of
happiness, of consigning him to his old fate, and taking him from the
only friend he has ever had--which is yourself. If Nature, in such a
case, put into that lad's breast but one secret prompting which urged
him towards his father and away from you, she would be a liar and an
idiot.'
Nicholas was delighted to find that the old gentleman spoke so warmly,
and in the hope that he might say something more to the same purpose,
made no reply.
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