Every family and village has had its scapegrace. The family
ne'er-do-weel has been its greatest curse, and has torn down and
dissipated in a few years what it has taken generations to set up; any
fool can destroy--only the wise can build.
But it is not so much folly as lack of principle which constitutes the
ne'er-do-weel. Many a good man is a stupid one, and his goodness saves
his stupidity from carrying him and his family to ruin. And sometimes a
clever man is a ne'er-do-weel, because his cleverness is undirected by
principle.
Perhaps the most flagrant instance of the ne'er-do-weel among the
aristocracy was that of Philip Duke of Wharton, the inheritor of a
princely fortune, of extensive estates, and endowed by nature with
brilliant talents, a man who forfeited everything simply because
he was without principle, and died in abject poverty, the last of a
race which had been the pride of the North of England; but he died in
something worse than poverty--in dishonour. It was of him that Pope
wrote these scathing lines:
"Clodis--the scorn and wonder of our days,
Whose ruling passion was the lust of praise;
Born with whate'er could win it from the wise,
Women or fools must like him, or he dies.
* * * * *
His passion still to covet general praise,
His life to forfeit it a thousand ways.
A tyrant to the wife his heart approves,
A rebel to the very king he loves;
He dies, sad outcast of each Church and State,
And harder still, flagitious, yet not great.
Ask you why Clodis broke through every rule?
'Twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool."
The present time shows us some of these among the inheritors of noble
names and fortunes--men as foolish and unprincipled as the wretched
Duke of Wharton, and who run through a hardly less disreputable course,
to the disgrace of the name which has hitherto been held high in
history.
In many a humbler family it is the same. It would seem as though
occasionally a sport of some ignoble, sordid, selfish element broke out
in a stock that has been noted for its self-respect, its goodness and
generosity, and the wretched creature in which is this vein of baseness
undoes in a few years everything that it has taken his ancestors many
years of prudence, self-sacrifice, and forethought to construct.
The writer remembers the instance of a gentleman in the North of
England of excellent abilities, of many extended estates, and of
illustrious name.
He, however, had the misfortune to inherit his fortune early; he had
lost his father and mother when quite a boy, and when he came into his
estates he galloped through them, selling one property and mansion
after another, till he came to spend his last days in a cottage.
Throughout, one had pitied the man rather than blamed him, because
he had not been taught his duties to God and man at a mother's knee.
But one day the writer said to him, "Well! I suppose that if we began
life again, you and I, with our experiences, we should live very
differently."
"Not a bit of it," he answered promptly, with a merry laugh, "I'd go
through the same round to ruin again." After that, the spring of pity
for the man dried up. A man who cannot learn by experience, who has no
feeling for the shame and sorrow he has caused his family, deserves
only contempt.
As a boy I remember seeing a painting of a young gentleman with a flat
feeble face, and powdered hair, and laced coat. It was riddled with
small holes. I asked the reason.
It was the portrait of the family scapegrace, who had alienated the
paternal acres and mansion, and for three generations that picture
had been used for the children to shoot darts at. So alone did
that good-for-naught prove of the slightest use, in that to future
generations he was held up as the butt of scorn and loathing in the
family, as the one man who in a few years had wrecked what it had taken
an illustrious ancestry many centuries to accumulate.
The first token of the course the scapegrace is going to take is when
he begins to fell the stately trees that have been growing in his park
about his estate for over a hundred years.
I will quote a scene from Coleman's capital comedy of _The Poor
Gentleman_, which held up to detestation a man very common in that age.
"_An apartment in_ SIR CHARLES CROPLAND'S _house_. SIR CHARLES
CROPLAND _at breakfast; his_ valet de chambre _adjusting his hair_.
"_Sir Chas._ What day of the month was it yesterday, when I left town?
"_Valet._ The first of April, Sir Charles.
"_Sir Chas._ Umph! When Mr. Warner (the steward) comes, show him in.
"_Valet._ I shall, Sir Charles. [_Exit._
"_Sir Chas._ This same lumbering timber upon my ground has its
merits. Trees are notes issued from the bank of Nature, and as
current as those payable to Abraham Newland. I must get change for a
few oaks, for I want cash consumedly. So, Mr. Warner.
_Enter_ WARNER.
"_Warner._ Your honour is right welcome into Kent. I am proud to see
Sir Charles Cropland on his estate again. I hope you mean to stay on
the spot for some time, Sir Charles?
"_Sir Chas._ A very tedious time. Three days, Mr. Warner.
"_Warner._ Ah, good sir! I wish you lived entirely upon the estate,
Sir Charles.
"_Sir Chas._ Thank you, Warner; but modern men of fashion find it
devilish difficult to live upon their estates.
"_Warner._ The country about you is so charming!
"_Sir Chas._ Look ye, Warner, I must hunt in Leicestershire--for
that's the thing. In the frosts and the spring months I must be in
town at the clubs--for that's the thing. In summer I must be at the
watering-places--for that's the thing. Now, Warner, under these
circumstances, how is it possible for me to reside upon my estate?
For my estate being in Kent----
"_Warner._ The most beautiful part of the country----
"_Sir Chas._ Curse beauty! My estate being in Kent----
"_Warner._ A land of milk and honey!----
"_Sir Chas._ I hate milk and honey.
"_Warner._ A land of fat!
"_Sir Chas._ Damn your fat! Listen to me. My estate being in Kent----
"_Warner._ So woody!----
"_Sir Chas._ Curse the wood! No, that's wrong--for it's convenient. I
am come on purpose to cut it.
"_Warner._ Ah! I was afraid so! Dice on the table, and then, the axe
to the root! Money lost at play, and then, good luck! the forest
groans for it.
"_Sir Chas._ But you are not the forest, and why the devil do you
groan for it?
"_Warner._ I heartily wish, Sir Charles, you may not encumber the
goodly estate. Your worthy ancestors had views for their posterity.
"_Sir Chas._ And I shall have views for my posterity. I shall take
special care the trees shan't intercept their prospect. In short, Mr.
Warner, I must have three thousand pounds in three days. Fell timber
to that amount immediately."
A singular circumstance happened some years ago. I was told it by a
timber merchant who was on the spot.
A respectable nobleman died, leaving a scapegrace son to inherit his
title, estates, and wealth.
It was then that the Jews came down like vultures on the heir. They had
lent him money on post-obits; and there was not enough to satisfy them.
Accordingly the mandate went forth for the cutting-down and sale of the
magnificent timber in the park--trees of centuries' growth.
The day of the sale arrived, and timber merchants had gathered from
far and near, and the auctioneer was about to begin the sale of the
trees--standing in their majesty. "By heaven!" said the dealer to me,
"it made my heart ache to see them--the trees themselves looked like
nobles--I say it made my heart ache, though I hoped to profit by them
too."
Well, just as the sale began a telegraphic messenger came galloping up
with an orange envelope.
The earl had shot himself.
The sale was stopped. The trees could not be felled. He had cut short
his own worthless life, and each stick of timber, every one of which
was more valuable than his miserable self, was saved.
"As the gaming and extravagance of the young men of quality has
arrived now at a pitch never heard of, it is worth while to give some
account of it," writes Horace Walpole in his last journals (1772).
"They had a club at one Almacks in Pall Mall, where they played only
for rouleaus of £50 each rouleau; and generally there was £10,000 in
specie on the table. Lord Holland had paid about £20,000 for his two
sons. Nor were the manners of the gamesters, or even their dresses for
play, undeserving notice. They began by pulling off their embroidered
clothes, and put on frieze greatcoats, or turned their coats inside
outwards for luck. They put on pieces of leather (such as is worn by
footmen when they clean knives) to save their lace ruffles; and to
guard their eyes from the light, and to prevent tumbling their hair,
wore high-crowned straw hats with broad brims, and adorned with flowers
and ribbons; masks to conceal their emotions when they played at
quinze. Each gamester had a small, neat stand by him, with a large rim
to hold his tea, or a wooden bowl with an edge of ormolu, to hold his
rouleaus. They borrowed great sums of the Jews at exorbitant premiums.
Charles Fox called his outward room, where these Jews waited till he
rose, the Jerusalem Chamber. His brother Stephen was enormously fat;
George Selwyn said he was in the right to deal with Shylocks, as he
could give them pounds of flesh."
There is a charming old house in Throwleigh, Devon, called Wonson
Manor, the ancient seat of the Knapmans, from whom it passed to the
Northmores of Cleave, together with large estates in the neighbourhood.
William Northmore of Cleave, M.P. for Okehampton from 1713 to 1734, was
a great gambler, and he lost at one sitting £17,000 on the turn of an
ace of diamonds in a game of putt.
This led to forced sales and the loss of the ancestral acres and house
of Well in South Tawton, and of nearly all the property in Throwleigh
except the manor-house. William Northmore had an ace of diamonds
painted in one of the panels of the wainscot of his bedroom, and every
night before turning into bed he cursed the ace instead of saying his
prayers. The ace is still shown. Now Wonson is also passed away.
There was in North Devon no more ancient family than Dowrish of
Dowrish, whose authentic pedigree goes back to King John's reign, when
Dowrish Keep was erected. The descent was direct from father to son
for twenty generations, that is to say for five hundred years, always
seated on the same acres and occupying the same house, that had indeed
been added to, remodelled, but which was in itself a record of the
lives and thoughts, ambitions, and discouragements of a family that
had married into the best in the land, the de Helions, the Carews, the
Fulfords, and the Northcotes.
Then, in graceless days, came the graceless fool who undid the work of
twenty generations in one night. The manor of Kennerleigh belonged and
had belonged to the Dowrishes for centuries.
[Illustration: WONSON MANOR]
One night the then squire and Sir Arthur Northcote were playing piquet.
Mr. Dowrish, being eldest hand, held the four aces, four kings, and
four queens, and promptly offered to bet his manor of Kennerleigh
against £500, by no means its value even in those days, that he won the
game. Sir Arthur took the bet, having a claim of _carte blanche_ on
his undiscarded hand. After Sir Arthur had discarded, he took up two
knaves, and held two points of five each, each headed by the knave. Mr.
Dowrish being about to declare, was stopped by Sir Arthur's claim for
ten for _carte blanche_, which ruined his chances. The point fell to
Sir Arthur, and two quints, who scored thus:
Carte blanche 10
Point 5
Two quints at 15 each 30
Repique 60
--
105 and game.
At the present day there would be holes to pick in this method of
counting, as Mr. Dowrish on his side could have claimed his "fourteens"
for aces, kings, and queens before allowing the sequences to count,
but not so formerly, when the rule was absolute as to the order of
counting, point, sequence, threes or fours of suits. So the manor was
lost, and Kennerleigh belongs to Lord Iddesleigh at the present day.
In commemoration of the game, the table at which it was played was
inlaid with representations of the two hands, and is now in Dowrish
House, a mansion that has lost all its interest, having been remodelled
in suburban villa style, but nobly situated and commanding a glorious
view.
Gambling thus recklessly is an illustration of reversion to one of the
strongest passions that actuates man in his lowest savage state. So
the Alaskan natives. "They often pass whole days and nights absorbed
in the occupation. Their principal game is played with a handful of
small sticks of different colours, which are called by various names,
such as the crab, the whale, the duck, and so on. The player shuffles
all the sticks together, then, counting out a certain number, he
places them under cover of bunches of moss. The object seems to be
to guess in which pile is the whale, and in which the crab, or the
duck. Individuals often lose at this trifling game all their worldly
possessions. We are told of instances where, spurred on by excitement,
a native risks his wife and children, and if he loses, they become
the recognized property of the winner, nor would anyone think of
interfering with such a settlement."[7]
A certain earl, when a young man, being fond of play, called on Beau
Nash to gamble with him. Nash first won from him all his ready money,
then the title deeds of his estates, and finally the very watch in his
pocket, and the rings on his fingers--all in one night. Nash thereupon
read him a lecture on his incredible folly, and returned all his
winnings, at the same time extracting from him a promise that he would
never play again.
But it is not among the gentry only that the scapegraces are found,
though such as are highly placed are most noticed. They are to be found
in every class, and there is not a village which does not produce these
sour fruit.
The generality of these scapegraces are simply scatter-brains, filled
with exuberant spirits that carry them beyond the bounds that constrain
the commonplace folk. If these fellows, full of animal spirits,
effervescing with the joy of life, have principle and wise parents
to advise them, they will turn out admirable men, useful members of
society. The army or the navy is the profession to which they naturally
gravitate, and first-rate soldiers and sailors they make. But this
is if they have principle. Without that as a fly-wheel, they spin
themselves out without doing good to themselves or to anyone else.
Compare some of the scamps we have known at school, in a parish, with
the heavy, plodding lout, who is without go and without intelligence.
Which makes the best man in the end? The scamp undoubtedly, if his
scampishness springs out of exuberant spirits and there be no root of
vice in the heart.
The heavy, plodding lout becomes a wholesome and useful member of
society; but he is without freshness and energy.
We cannot doubt that some untoward circumstance sometimes throws a
young fellow out of his proper course of life, and throughout his
career he is conscious that he has got into the wrong groove. Then
he either makes the best of it, or continues in sullen resentment
with resistance at heart against the restraints and contrarieties
he encounters--gets into difficulties, is cast out when too late to
take up another course, and squanders life away in disorder or idle
repenting. I knew a boy who, getting into a "row" at school, instead
of waiting and receiving his punishment pluckily, and accepting it as
deserved, ran away to sea.
I met him many years after, a sailor, and he said to me, "The blot of
my life was that I did not accept the birch I had deserved. I cut away
to sea. I have been now a seaman for fifteen years, and have never yet
found my sea-legs. Whenever there is a capful of wind, and the water
is a bit rough, I am sick as a dog. It is always the same. It stands
against me. I hate the sea. But I made a fool of myself when I ran from
school, and a fool I shall remain to the end."
"Not a bit," was my reply. "Like a sensible man, you have held to the
profession you chose, and make the best of it. You win back thereby all
the respect you threw away when you shirked your punishment."
There was every temptation to this young man to become a ne'er-do-weel,
but he did not give way to the temptation. He recognized the fact that
he had made a mistake, and he took the consequences like a man. But,
then, it is, perhaps, one only in five of those who make these mistakes
who has the courage to accept the results, and accommodate himself to
them.
Where there is a sound substratum of healthy conscience and force of
character, there one may always hope that a mistake in early life will
right itself.
But if there be mere love of lawlessness, mere wilfulness, in the
outbreaks of youth, then there is no redemption, the ne'er-do-weel boy
remains a ne'er-do-weel to the end of the chapter.
I remember one such. I knew him as a boy, and confess to have
entertained a liking for him; but his escapades passed all bounds of
moderation. A good-natured, chestnut-haired boy he was, with clear,
trembling blue eyes, a fair complexion somewhat marred by freckles,
and straight, elastic figure. Unhappily this lad had not parents who
taught their children what would do them good in life; nor kept them to
the National School, where they might have acquired that which their
parents neglected to inculcate.
The young fellow sometimes came to church, and then went into the
gallery behind the choir. Now, in the choir sat a young fellow with a
head covered with natural curls of a tow colour, on Sundays drenched
in hair-oil. One Sunday the scapegrace thrust a lighted match into the
mass of oiled curls, and the head blazed up at once.
The same ne'er-do-weel, whilst he was ringing the tenor bell, suddenly
threw the loop of the rope over the neck of the next man, who was
instantly whisked up against the belfry floor above and thrown down,
and very nearly killed.
On again another occasion, he thrashed a fellow called "Old Straw"
with a flail, saying that he was bent on finding if there was any good
to be got out of him. He broke Straw's leg, and was sentenced by the
magistrates to be put in the stocks.
That was the last occasion when stocks were used in England, and so
angry was the squire at the revival of the stocks, that after the
sentence had been carried out he had them chopped up and burnt.
The disgrace of the stocks was too much for our ne'er-do-weel; he
left the parish and entered the army, but had to leave--he was a
ne'er-do-weel under the colours as in fustian. Since then he has been
about the world--a ne'er-do-weel everywhere.
The other day the church bell was tolling. It was for this
ne'er-do-weel. He had returned home to die. The sole wish in the heart
of the man with a wasted life was to lie, to cast down the wreck of his
body, in the earth of the native parish which had bred him, and to have
no headstone to mark the mound under which lay naught but the ashes of
a ne'er-do-weel.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: HEDGES]