f the Garter--a politeness the duke returned by wearing while
there the no less unrecognised title of Duke of Northumberland, which
'His Majesty' had formerly conferred on him. But James III., though no
saint, had more respect for decent conduct than his father and uncle;
the duke ran off into every species of excess, got into debt as usual--

'When Wharton's just, and learns to pay his debts,
And reputation dwells at Mother Brett's,

* * * * *

Then, Celia, shall my constant passion cease,
And my poor suff'ring heart shall be at peace,'

says a satirical poem of the day, called 'The Duke of Wharton's
_Whens_'--was faithless to the wife he had lately been dying for; and
in short, such a thorough blackguard, that not even the Jacobites could
tolerate him, and they turned him out of the Holy City till he should
learn not to bring dishonour on the court of their fictitious sovereign.

The duke was not the man to be much ashamed of himself, though his poor
wife may now have begun to think her late mistress in the right, and he
was probably glad of an excuse for another change. At this time, 1727,
the Spaniards were determined to wrest Gibraltar from its English
defenders, and were sending thither a powerful army under the command of
Los Torres. The Duke had tried many trades with more or less success,
and now thought that a little military glory would tack on well to his
highly honourable biography. At any rate there was novelty in the din of
war, and for novelty he would go anywhere. It mattered little that he
should fight against his own king and own countrymen: he was not half
blackguard enough yet, he may have thought; he had played traitor for
some time, he would now play rebel outright--the game _was_ worth the
candle.

So what does my lord duke do but write a letter (like the Chinese behind
their mud-walls, he was always bold enough when well secured under the
protection of the post, and was more absurd in ink even than in action)
to the King of Spain, offering him his services as a volunteer against
'Gib.' Whether his Most Catholic Majesty thought him a traitor, a
madman, or a devoted partisan of his own, does not appear, for without
waiting for an answer--waiting was always too dull work for Wharton--he
and his wife set off for the camp before Gibraltar, introduced
themselves to the Conde in Command, were received with all the
honour--let us say honours--d