I wonder if any of my readers remember the fine old man who used to sit in the Row during the summer of 1885 fancying himself king; the way he used to swagger up as if all the world belonged to him, his servant walking immediately behind him watching for the imperious wave of his master’s hand, which, being interpreted, meant he wished to sit down. Two chairs were then hastily arranged, on one of which he sat down with a good deal of action, the other proudly supported his legs. This arrangement took up a good deal of room where people were walking up and down, but nobody interfered with this aristocratic-looking, well dressed and groomed old man, with his large flowing moustache and huge button-hole, consisting one day of a sunflower, another a peony, or something equally remarkable. The old gentleman used to talk a good deal to himself about the bad manners and ingratitude of his subjects who passed up and down without bowing to him. We often wondered who he was. One day Lord William found out from a policeman on duty in the park. An accident had upset the equilibrium of the old sportsman’s brain, but he was quite harmless and nobody objected to him, so he was allowed to remain. As our bad manners and ingratitude caused him so much uneasiness, Lord William suggested we should muster strong one day and march past in couples, bowing deeply. We felt a little nervous as to what might happen, but acquiesced, and we all marched past bowing and smiling, being amply repaid for our courage by the evident pleasure of the king, who took off his hat with a graceful flourish to us and presented the sunflower out of his button-hole to one of the girls of our party. Memories of those days come tumbling over one another with such rapidity it is hard to know where to stop, the pleasure is so great in recalling them. One evening I remember well, during that same leave (I think) of Lord William’s, he was dining with us, and after dinner somebody said would I play some dance music as they wanted to dance, so we adjourned to the dining-room and had it cleared at one end. After dancing awhile, the men began American cock-fighting. There were some fierce encounters and amusing scenes. I was still sitting by the old cottage piano which stood in a corner of the room, when one of the combatants, breathless from a contest with Lord Bill, came and leaned against the piano whilst drinking a whisky and soda. Somehow accidentally the greater part of the whisky and soda got upset down into the vitals of the piano, the top being open at the time. Poor old piano, it is going still, but the shock to its nervous system was so great it every now and then has the sulks for a time, until coaxed by a tuner into fresh efforts.