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. She guessed that he probably slept all of three hours a night at most. So he made merry at the dinner table, told comic stories, and was astonished at the readiness with which she grasped the comic side of life. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him.
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