He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered. They were bathing in the stream. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. Listen, Jack. Even that he sleeps, I must give to him my thanks, for he has been excessively brave for me. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write.
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