Fancy again, Lady fisheresses (I appeal to good old Tory young ladies who land big salmon every autumn in or about the Gordon-Richmond estates in Scotland), how much jollier it is to see the monarch of the stream on the grass than to ‘rink’ at Prince’s, or to be carried round Belgravian drawing-rooms, half dead and quite knocked up, in the mazy waltz. Not that Prince’s is a bad place by any means, nor ballrooms either. / Now, is not this a romantic opening? I am going to talk about cockney fishing twenty years ago.