and he sent her almost weekly fresh presentments of his
unprepossessing exterior, but always in a bowing attitude. We made,
naturally, inquiries about this person, and found that he was an
elderly widower, a hatter by trade, who had retired from business
after making a considerable fortune, and was living in Rathmines, a
South Dublin suburb. The hatter was undoubtedly mad, a mental
infirmity for which there is, of course, ample precedent in the case
of gentlemen of his profession.

On one occasion, when my sister was leaving for England, the hatter,
having purchased a number of fireworks, chartered a rowing-boat, and
as the mail-steamer cleared the Kingstown pier-heads, a _bouquet_
of rockets and Roman candles coruscated before the eyes of the
astonished passengers. I was then eighteen, and as none of us had set
eyes on the hatter, it occurred to me that it would be rather fun to
impersonate him, so, taking a photograph with me as guide, I got his
bald grey head and long grey whiskers accurately copied by a Dublin
theatrical wig-maker. It would have been difficult to carry out my
idea at the Viceregal Lodge, for in the hall there, in addition to the
regular hall-porter, there was always a constable in uniform and a
plain-clothes man on duty, to prevent the entry of unauthorised
persons, so I waited until we had moved to Baron's Court. Here I made
careful preparations, and arranged to dress and makeup at the house of
the Head-Keeper, a great ally of mine. I was met here by a hack-car
ordered from the neighbouring town, and drove up to the front door
armed with a nosegay the size of a cart-wheel, composed of dahlias,
hollyhocks and sunflowers. I gave the hatter's name at the door, and
was ushered by the unsuspecting footman into a library, where I waited
an interminable time--with my gigantic bouquet in my hand. At length
the door opened, but instead of my sister, as I had anticipated, it