How sad a subject for contemplation!  The wreck of intellect, of genius, of humanity.  Fortunate for mankind, if, under the decree of a saving and blessing Providence, there be no dark void on earth—­when one bright star falls from its sphere, if there is another soon lighted to fill its place, and to shine more purely than that which has been lost.  May we not believe this—­nay, we must, and exult, on behalf of humanity—­that, in the eternal progress of change, the nature which is its aliment no less than its element, restores not less than its destiny removes.  Yet, the knowledge that we lose not, does not materially lessen the pang when we behold the mighty fall—­when we see the great mind, which, as a star, we have almost worshipped, shooting with headlong precipitance through the immense void from its place of eminence, and defrauding the eye of all the glorious presence and golden promise which had become associated with its survey.

The intellect of Guy Rivers had been gigantic—­the mistake—­a mistake quite too common to society—­consisted in an education limited entirely to the mind, and entirely neglectful of the morale of the boy.  He was taught, like thousands of others; and the standards set up for his moral government, for his passions, for his emotions, were all false from the first.  The capacities of his mind were good as well as great—­but they had been restrained, while the passions had all been brought into active, and at length ungovernable exercise.  How was it possible that reason, thus taught to be subordinate, could hold the strife long, when passion—­fierce passion—­the passion of the querulous infant, and the peevish boy, only to be bribed to its duty by the toy and the sugarplum—­is its uncompromising antagonist?

But let us visit him in his dungeon—­the dungeon so lately the abode of his originally destined, but now happily safe victim.  What philosophy is there to support him in his reverse—­what consolation of faith, or of reflection, the natural result of the due performance of human duties? none!  Every thought was self-reproachful.  Every feeling was of self-rebuke and mortification.  Every dream was a haunting one of terror, merged for ever in the deep midnight cry of a fateful voice which bade him despair.  “Curse God and die!”

In respect to his human fortunes, the voice was utterly without pity.  He had summed up for himself, as calmly as possible, all his chances of escape.  There was no hope left him.  No sunlight, human or divine, penetrated the crevices of his dungeon, as in the case of Ralph Colleton, cheering him with promise, and lifting his soul with faith and resignation.  Strong and self-relying as was his mind by nature, he yet lacked all that strength of soul which had sustained Ralph even when there seemed no possible escape from the danger which threatened his life.  But Guy Rivers was not capable of receiving light or warmth from the simple aspects of nature.  His