‘The Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs
appears at life’s close with tragic and dramatic effect. And what in all poetry is more thrilling, [410] ]more absorbing, than the closing scene of “injured Constance’s” wasted career; what more dignified than her invocation; more terrible, more piteous than that dread indictment which will ring throughout the ages, than the lingering death under the conventual law of a merciless age?—the gloomy rock-hewn vault that “was to the sounding surge so near”
‘You seem’d to hear a distant rill—
’Twas ocean’s swells and falls;
A tempest there you scarce could hear
So massive were the walls.
. . . . . . . . .
‘Distant as is the period, fictitious the personages, dimly historical the action, the magic of genius invests them with an actuality which causes mental, almost physical pain to the sympathetic reader. Surely the Muse can desire no more transcendent tribute.’
A chorus of congratulations followed the conclusion of Mr. Banneret’s reminiscent adoration of his favourite author. His wife thought that a passage from one of the novels would be a fitting diversion from perhaps the too melancholy episode to which they had been listening. Rob Roy had been an early favourite. The character of Diana Vernon had always represented to her mind the attributes of the noblest type of womanhood—presenting high courage, passionate personal attachment, combined with deep devotion to parental duty, never suffered to be in abeyance for a moment.