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.
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