Chapter 2

I must confess, my dear Browne, that your arrival
yesterday, agreeable to me for a thousand reasons besides, seemed the
most favourable opportunity of removing the unpleasant rumours which
attached to the room, since your courage was indubitable, and your mind
free of any preoccupation on the subject. I could not, therefore, have
chosen a more fitting subject for my experiment.”

“Upon my life,” said General Browne, somewhat hastily, “I am infinitely
obliged to your lordship--very particularly indebted indeed. I am likely
to remember for some time the consequences of the experiment, as your
lordship is pleased to call it.”

“Nay, now you are unjust, my dear friend,” said Lord Woodville. “You
have only to reflect for a single moment, in order to be convinced that
I could not augur the possibility of the pain to which you have been
so unhappily exposed. I was yesterday morning a complete sceptic on the
subject of supernatural appearances. Nay, I am sure that, had I told
you what was said about that room, those very reports would have induced
you, by your own choice, to select it for your accommodation. It was my
misfortune, perhaps my error, but really cannot be termed my fault, that
you have been afflicted so strangely.”

“Strangely indeed!” said the General, resuming his good temper; “and I
acknowledge that I have no right to be offended with your lordship for
treating me like what I used to think myself--a man of some firmness
and courage. But I see my post horses are arrived, and I must not detain
your lordship from your amusement.”

“Nay, my old friend,” said Lord Woodville, “since you cannot stay with
us another day--which, indeed, I can no longer urge--give me at least
half an hour more. You used to love pictures, and I have a gallery of
portraits, some of them by Vandyke, representing ancestry to whom this
property and castle formerly belonged. I think that several of them will
strike you as possessing merit.”

General Browne accepted the invitation, though somewhat unwillingly.
It was evident he was not to breathe freely or at ease till he left
Woodville Castle far behind him. He could not refuse his friend’s
invitation, however; and the less so, that he was a little ashamed
of the peevishness which he had displayed towards his well-meaning
entertainer.

The General, therefore, followed Lord Woodville through several rooms
into a long gallery hung with pictures, which the latter pointed out to
his guest, telling the names, and giving some account of the personages
whose portraits presented themselves in progression. General Browne was
but little interested in the details which these accounts conveyed to
him. They were, indeed, of the kind which are usually found in an old
family gallery. Here was a Cavalier who had ruined the estate in the
royal cause; there a fine lady who had reinstated it by contracting a
match with a wealthy Roundhead. There hung a gallant who had been in
danger for corresponding with the exiled Court at Saint Germain’s; here
one who had taken arms for William at the Revolution; and there a third
that had thrown his weight alternately into the scale of Whig and Tory.

While lord Woodville was cramming these words into his guest’s ear,
“against the stomach of his sense,” they gained the middle of the
gallery, when he beheld General Browne suddenly start, and assume an
attitude of the utmost surprise, not unmixed with fear, as his eyes were
suddenly caught and riveted by a portrait of an old lady in a sacque,
the fashionable dress of the end of the seventeenth century.

“There she is!” he exclaimed--“there she is, in form and features,
though Inferior in demoniac expression to the accursed hag who visited
me last night!”

“If that be the case,” said the young nobleman, “there can remain no
longer any doubt of the horrible reality of your apparition. That is the
picture of a wretched ancestress of mine, of whose crimes a black and
fearful catalogue is recorded in a family history in my charter-chest.
The recital of them would be too horrible; it is enough to say, that in
yon fatal apartment incest and unnatural murder were committed. I will
restore it to the solitude to which the better judgment of those who
preceded me had consigned it; and never shall any one, so long as I can
prevent it, be exposed to a repetition of the supernatural horrors which
could shake such courage as yours.”

Thus the friends, who had met with such glee, parted in a very different
mood--Lord Woodville to command the Tapestried Chamber to be unmantled,
and the door built up; and General Browne to seek in some less beautiful
country, and with some less dignified friend, forgetfulness of the
painful night which he had passed in Woodville Castle.

END OF THE TAPESTRIED CHAMBER.

*****

DEATH OF THE LAIRD’S JOCK

by Sir Walter Scott.

[The manner in which this trifle was introduced at the time to Mr. F.
M. Reynolds, editor of The Keepsake of 1828, leaves no occasion for a
preface.]

AUGUST 1831.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KEEPSAKE.

You have asked me, sir, to point out a subject for the pencil, and I
feel the difficulty of complying with your request, although I am not
certainly unaccustomed to literary composition, or a total stranger to
the stores of history and tradition, which afford the best copies for
the painter’s art. But although SICUT PICTURA POESIS is an ancient and
undisputed axiom--although poetry and painting both address themselves
to the same object of exciting the human imagination, by presenting to
it pleasing or sublime images of ideal scenes--yet the one conveying
itself through the ears to the understanding, and the other applying
itself only to the eyes, the subjects which are best suited to the bard
or tale-teller are often totally unfit for painting, where the artist
must present in a single glance all that his art has power to tell us.
The artist can neither recapitulate the past nor intimate the future.
The single NOW is all which he can present; and hence, unquestionably,
many subjects which delight us in poetry or in narrative, whether real
or fictitious, cannot with advantage be transferred to the canvas.

Being in some degree aware of these difficulties, though doubtless
unacquainted both with their extent and the means by which they may be
modified or surmounted, I have, nevertheless, ventured to draw up the
following traditional narrative as a story in which, when the general
details are known, the interest is so much concentrated in one strong
moment of agonizing passion, that it can be understood and sympathized
with at a single glance. I therefore presume that it may be acceptable
as a hint to some one among the numerous artists who have of late
years distinguished themselves as rearing up and supporting the British
school.

Enough has been said and sung about

“The well-contested ground,
The warlike Border-land,”

to render the habits of the tribes who inhabited it before the union of
England and Scotland familiar to most of your readers. The rougher and
sterner features of their character were softened by their attachment
to the fine arts, from which has arisen the saying that on the frontiers
every dale had its battle, and every river its song. A rude species of
chivalry was in constant use, and single combats were practised as the
amusement of the few intervals of truce which suspended the exercise of
war. The inveteracy of this custom may be inferred from the following
incident:--

Bernard Gilpin, the apostle of the north, the first who undertook to
preach the Protestant doctrines to the Border dalesmen, was surprised,
on entering one of their churches, to see a gauntlet or mail-glove
hanging above the altar. Upon inquiring; the meaning of a symbol so
indecorous being displayed in that sacred place, he was informed by the
clerk that the glove was that of a famous swordsman, who hung it there
as an emblem of a general challenge and gage of battle to any who should
dare to take the fatal token down. “Reach it to me,” said the reverend
churchman. The clerk and the sexton equally declined the perilous
office, and the good Bernard Gilpin was obliged to remove the glove with
his own hands, desiring those who were present to inform the champion
that he, and no other, had possessed himself of the gage of defiance.
But the champion was as much ashamed to face Bernard Gilpin as the
officials of the church had been to displace his pledge of combat.

The date of the following story is about the latter years of Queen
Elizabeth’s reign; and the events took place in Liddesdale, a hilly and
pastoral district of Roxburghshire, which, on a part of its boundary, is
divided from England only by a small river.

During the good old times of RUGGING AND RIVING--that is, tugging and
tearing--under which term the disorderly doings of the warlike age are
affectionately remembered, this valley was principally cultivated by the
sept or clan of the Armstrongs. The chief of this warlike race was
the Laird of Mangerton. At the period of which I speak, the estate of
Mangerton, with the power and dignity of chief, was possessed by John
Armstrong, a man of great size, strength, and courage. While his father
was alive, he was distinguished from others of his clan who bore the
same name, by the epithet of the LAIRD’S JOCK--that is to say, the
Laird’s son Jock, or Jack. This name he distinguished by so many bold
and desperate achievements, that he retained it even after his father’s
death, and is mentioned under it both in authentic records and in
tradition. Some of his feats are recorded in the minstrelsy of the
Scottish Border, and others are mentioned in contemporary chronicles.

At the species of singular combat which we have described the Laird’s
Jock was unrivalled, and no champion of Cumberland, Westmoreland, or
Northumberland could endure the sway of the huge two-handed sword which
he wielded, and which few others could even lift. This “awful sword,” as
the common people term it, was as dear to him as Durindana or Fushberta
to their respective masters, and was nearly as formidable to his enemies
as those renowned falchions proved to the foes of Christendom. The
weapon had been bequeathed to him by a celebrated English outlaw named
Hobbie Noble, who, having committed some deed for which he was in danger
from justice, fled to Liddesdale, and became a follower, or rather a
brother-in-arms, to the renowned Laird’s Jock; till, venturing into
England with a small escort, a faithless guide, and with a light
single-handed sword instead of his ponderous brand, Hobbie Noble,
attacked by superior numbers, was made prisoner and executed.

With this weapon, and by means of his own strength and address, the
Laird’s Jock maintained the reputation of the best swordsman on the
Border side, and defeated or slew many who ventured to dispute with him
the formidable title.

But years pass on with the strong and the brave as with the feeble
and the timid. In process of time the Laird’s Jock grew incapable of
wielding his weapons, and finally of all active exertion, even of the
most ordinary kind. The disabled champion became at length totally
bedridden, and entirely dependent for his comfort on the pious duties of
an only daughter, his perpetual attendant and companion.

Besides this dutiful child, the Laird’s Jock had an only son, upon
whom devolved the perilous task of leading the clan to battle, and
maintaining the warlike renown of his native country, which was now
disputed by the English upon many occasions. The young Armstrong was
active, brave, and strong, and brought home from dangerous adventures
many tokens of decided success. Still, the ancient chief conceived,
as it would seem, that his son was scarce yet entitled by age and
experience to be entrusted with the two-handed sword, by the use of
which he had himself been so dreadfully distinguished.

At length an English champion, one of the name of Foster (if I rightly
recollect), had the audacity to send a challenge to the best swordsman
in Liddesdale; and young Armstrong, burning for chivalrous distinction,
accepted the challenge.

The heart of the disabled old man swelled with joy when he heard that
the challenge was passed and accepted, and the meeting fixed at a
neutral spot, used as the place of rencontre upon such occasions, and
which he himself had distinguished by numerous victories. He exulted
so much in the conquest which he anticipated, that, to nerve his son to
still bolder exertions, he conferred upon him, as champion of his clan
and province, the celebrated weapon which he had hitherto retained in
his own custody.

This was not all. When the day of combat arrived, the Laird’s Jock, in
spite of his daughter’s affectionate remonstrances, determined, though
he had not left his bed for two years, to be a personal witness of the
duel. His will was still a law to his people, who bore him on their
shoulders, wrapped in plaids and blankets, to the spot where the combat
was to take place, and seated him on a fragment of rock, which is still
called the Laird’s Jock’s stone. There he remained with eyes fixed on
the lists or barrier, within which the champions were about to meet.
His daughter, having done all she could for his accommodation, stood
motionless beside him, divided between anxiety for his health, and for
the event of the combat to her beloved brother. Ere yet the fight began,
the old men gazed on their chief, now seen for the first time after
several years, and sadly compared his altered features and wasted
frame with the paragon of strength and manly beauty which they once
remembered. The young men gazed on his large form and powerful make as
upon some antediluvian giant who had survived the destruction of the
Flood.

But the sound of the trumpets on both sides recalled the attention
of every one to the lists, surrounded as they were by numbers of both
nations eager to witness the event of the day. The combatants met in the
lists. It is needless to describe the struggle: the Scottish champion
fell. Foster, placing his foot on his antagonist, seized on the
redoubted sword, so precious in the eyes of its aged owner, and
brandished it over his head as a trophy of his conquest. The English
shouted in triumph. But the despairing cry of the aged champion, who saw
his country dishonoured, and his sword, long the terror of their
race, in the possession of an Englishman, was heard high above the
acclamations of victory. He seemed for an instant animated by all his
wonted power; for he started from the rock on which he sat, and while
the garments with which he had been invested fell from his wasted frame,
and showed the ruins of his strength, he tossed his arms wildly to
heaven, and uttered a cry of indignation, horror, and despair, which,
tradition says, was heard to a preternatural distance, and resembled the
cry of a dying lion more than a human sound.

His friends received him in their arms as he sank utterly exhausted by
the effort, and bore him back to his castle in mute sorrow; while his
daughter at once wept for her brother, and endeavoured to mitigate and
soothe the despair of her father. But this was impossible; the old man’s
only tie to life was rent rudely asunder, and his heart had broken with
it. The death of his son had no part in his sorrow. If he thought of
him at all, it was as the degenerate boy through whom the honour of his
country and clan had been lost; and he died in the course of three
days, never even mentioning his name, but pouring out unintermitted
lamentations for the loss of his noble sword.

I conceive that the moment when the disabled chief was roused into a
last exertion by the agony of the moment is favourable to the object of
a painter. He might obtain the full advantage of contrasting the form
of the rugged old man, in the extremity of furious despair, with the
softness and beauty of the female form. The fatal field might be thrown
into perspective, so as to give full effect to these two principal
figures, and with the single explanation that the piece represented a
soldier beholding his son slain, and the honour of his country lost, the
picture would be sufficiently intelligible at the first glance. If it
was thought necessary to show more clearly the nature of the conflict,
it might be indicated by the pennon of Saint George being displayed at
one end of the lists, and that of Saint Andrew at the other.

I remain, sir,

Your obedient servant,

THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY.