got neither a peerage nor a gentle breeding. Instead he was reared
meagrely, if not harshly, under the maternal roof and name, until he grew
old enough to realize that he was on an island where bad birth is not
forgiven, even if the taint be royal. Then he ran away, reached the coast
of France, and made his way to the French court, where his father was now,
and properly enough, an exile. He was a fine youth, with a prompt tongue
and clever head, and some attention was finally shown him. They gave him a
sword and a company, and he went with the French through all the wars of
Marlborough, gaining distinction, and, what is more, a fat purse.

With his money he returned to Ireland, wedded a maid of whom he had
dreamed during all his exile, and settled down there to beggar himself in
a life of bibulous ease, gaming, fox-hunting, and wastefulness generally.
After some years the wife died, and James Lynch drifted naturally into the
conspiracy which led to the first rising for the Pretender, involving
himself as deeply as possible, and at its collapse flying once more to
France, never to return.

He bore with him this time a son of eight years--my Mr. Stewart. This
boy, called Thomas, was reared on the skirts of the vicious French court,
now in a Jesuit school, now a poor relation in a palace, always reflecting
in the vicissitudes of his condition the phases of his sire's vagrant
existence. Sometimes this father would be moneyed and prodigal, anon
destitute and mean, but always selfish to the core, and merrily regardless
alike of canons and of consequences. He died, did this adventurous
gentleman, in the very year which took off the first George in Hanover,
and left his son a very little money, a mountain of debts, and an
injunction of loyalty to the Stewarts.

Young Thomas, then nearly twenty, thought much for a time of becoming a