There is
a full-length of his eldest son, an officer of dragoons, leaning on his
charger; and a portrait of Lady Scott,--a brunette, with black hair and
eyes, very pretty, warm, vivacious, and un-English in her aspect. I am
not quite sure whether I saw all these pictures in the drawing-room, or
some of them in the dining-room; but the one that struck me most--and
very much indeed--was the head of Mary, Queen of Scots, literally the
head cut off and lying on a dish. It is said to have been painted by an
Italian or French artist, two days after her death. The hair curls or
flows all about it; the face is of a death-like hue, but has an
expression of quiet, after much pain and trouble,--very beautiful, very
sweet and sad; and it affected me strongly with the horror and
strangeness of such a head being severed from its body. Methinks I
should not like to have it always in the room with me. I thought of the
lovely picture of Mary that I had seen at Edinburgh Castle, and reflected
what a symbol it would be,--how expressive of a human being having her
destiny in her own hands,--if that beautiful young Queen were painted as
carrying this dish, containing her own woful head, and perhaps casting a
curious and pitiful glance down upon it, as if it were not her own.
Also, in the drawing-room, there was a plaster cast of Sir Walter's face,
taken after death; the only one in existence, as our guide assured us.
It is not often that one sees a homelier set of features than this; no
elevation, no dignity, whether bestowed by nature or thrown over them by
age or death; sunken cheeks, the bridge of the nose depressed, and the
end turned up; the mouth puckered, and no chin whatever, or hardly any.
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