ts had seen pass away, the
strange doings they must have witnessed as generation after generation
of Scapegraces lived their short hour and went to their account,
having done all the mischief they could, for they were a wild, wicked
race from father to son. The present Baronet's childhood was nursed in
profligacy and excess. Sir Gilbert had been a fitting sire to Sir Guy,
and drank, and drove, and sinned, and turned his wife out-of-doors,
and gathered his boon companions about him, and placed his heir, a
little child, upon the table, and baptized him, in mockery, with
blood-red wine; and one fine morning he was found dead in his
dressing-room, with a dark stream stealing slowly along the floor.
They talked of "broken blood-vessels," and "hard living," and "a full
habit;" but some people thought he had died by his own hand; and the
dressing-room was shut up and made a lumber-room of, and nobody ever
used it any more. However, it was the only thing to save the family. A
long minority put the present possessor fairly on his legs again, and
the oaks and the chestnuts were spared the fate that had seemed too
surely awaiting them. Nor was this the only escape they had
experienced. A Scapegrace of former days had served in the
Parliamentary army during his father's lifetime; had gone over to the
king at his death; had fought at Edgehill and Marston Moor--and to do
Sir Neville justice, he could fight like a demon; had abandoned the
royal cause when it was hopeless, and, by betraying his sovereign,
escaped the usual fate and amercement of malcontent--the Protector
remarking, with a certain solemn humour, "that Sir Neville was an
instrument in the hand of the Lord, but that Satan had a share in him,
which doubtless he would not fail to claim in due time." So Sir
Neville lived at Scamperley in abundance and honour, and preserved his
oaks and his rents, and professed the strictest Puritanism; and died
in a fit brought on by excessive drinking to the success of the
Restoration, when he heard that Charles had landed, and the king was
really "to enjoy his own again." He was succeeded by his grandson Sir
Montague, the best-looking, the best-hearted, and the weakest of his
race. There was a picture of him hanging over against the great
staircase--a handsome, well-proportioned man, with a woman's beauty of
countenance, and more than womanly softness of expression. Lady
Scapegrace and I have stopped and gazed at it for hours.

"He's not