or more of it, right up to the next mill at Great Ottley. There the beech wood behind the mill thrusts out jealously from the downs to remind us that the river is not the only thing worthy of our admiration. Yet, were we angling to-day and not painting, I would very gladly point out to you the many excellent features of that water. For I have never fished it, and my acquaintance with it is purely imaginary. Yet with what trouts and graylings have I furnished it as I have sat up here and wandered in fancy where it shines among its water-meadows—pulling them out. That great red and grey Jacobean house is Beaulieu (you know, I suppose, how to pronounce that so as to be understood hereabouts), and that is the park with its long green avenue of ancient limes. And there is the Italian garden, all statues and solemn trim hedges and fountains and terraces, and to the right the old square, red-walled fruit garden, and to the left the formal pattern of the rose garden. It looks like a little carpet from this high place.
You can see the tiny village of Beaulieu, there by the end of the avenue. Six or seven houses and a little inn, the "Three Moles" they call it. But for these and their big house and the mill at Great Ottley and the chimneys of Great Ottley House (the next mansion in a valley of mansions),
