DUM CAPIMUS CAPIMUR. 5 
Some men there are, I know, who prefer a, helter- 
skelter rush, thorough flood thorough fell, after a burly 
salmon, with a moral certainty of breaking either 
their tackle or their necks, and a very fair chance of 
taking an involuntary header over a cataract, or being 
soused plummet-wise into a whirlpool ; others again 
rejoice in a tussle with that grim cannibal the pike, 
or a solitary stroll, trout-rod in hand, by the banks 
of the arrowy Dart, “shut in, left alone, with them- 
selves and perfection of water ;” but of all sports and 
spots commend me to a good gravelly swim on the 
Thames in July, a punt, a rake, a pretty companion, 
and a day’s gudgeon-fishing. 
“ A league of grass, washed by a slow broad stream 
That, stirred with languid pulses of the oar, 
Waves all its lazy lilies and creeps on.” . . . 
What can be more jolly? A fellow has come 
back, regularly done up, perhaps, with grind, to 
spend “the long” at the Grange with the cousins 
(Julia is a ward in Chancery, I fancy ?)—one of those 
broad white houses to be found nowhere but on 
the banks of Thames, with a skirting of pheasant- 
cover or wooded cliff as a background, and a lawn as 
smooth and green as the finest Genoa velvet, sloping 
down from the drawing-room steps to the boathouse. 
The moment breakfast’s over, “ Now then, come along 
girls!” some one shouts; and out you go, through 
