He contrived to have his contention entered in the Harleian MSS., and to have Robert described as _nothus natus_—base-born, but when he presented the document at the Heralds’ College, it proved to be signed only by himself. On investigation, the lie was nailed to the counter, Robert’s legitimacy was fully proved, and his arms were certified without a difference. He was what would be looked upon in these days as a person of rather lax opinions and was “presented” at the Archdeacon’s Visitations “for sufferinge divers persons to eate, drinke and play atte cardes in time of eveninge praier.” In spite of the Archidiaconal thunders, he lived through the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James, and died in the first year of King Charles the First’s reign at the good old age of eighty-eight. He was succeeded by his grandson Robert, both of whose parents had died in his infancy on the same day. This Robert is an ancestor of special interest for us. In the first place it was to him that King Charles the Second restored by grant the Castle and royalties of Mitford, which had been forfeit in punishment of Roger Bertram’s treason by King Henry the Third in 1264, and secondly it is from his third son, John, who left the old home to seek his fortune as a merchant in London, that we, the Mitfords, formerly of Exbury, now of Batsford, are descended. The Mitfords of Pitshill are descended from William, who was a great-grandson of the Robert of Charles the Second’s time. The portraits of Robert Mitford and Philadelphia Wharton, his wife, are at Batsford. The contemporary frame of her picture is surrounded by carved oak leaves and acorns in memory of the famous escape of the King, and to denote her loyalty to his cause. Let us linger for a few more moments among the ruins of the old Cradle of our Race. In the dark centuries, when even if there was no actual war between England and Scotland, there was almost continuous fighting between the fierce clans on both sides, feuds and raids and cattle-lifting were the salt of northern life; hatred was a profession, revenge the accomplishment of a gentleman. The border castles were seldom at rest, and Mitford fared no better than its neighbours. Dreaming on a summer’s day within the, to us, sacred precincts, one can almost hear the grey walls ringing with the music of sword, spear and battle-axe clashing upon hauberk and breast-plate—the shouts of the fighting men mad with the lust of blood—clouds of arrows rattling like hail against the battlements should a head show itself. The borderers were gay men at fighting, and the Scots ever met with a hot welcome.