i88 THE PERCH. 



Eversley, poet, novelist, and an ardent angler. The 

 stream flowing through the valley below the park 

 turns and twists about among coppices of nuts and 

 hazels ; at every bend is a larger tree or bush, their 

 roots pushing through the bank, and forming 

 holts for perch and chub. At all these corners 

 the water is from four to five feet deep fine places 

 for paternoster fishing, with a worm or minnow. 

 For a mile or two the stream maintains this charac- 

 ter, until we approach a brick and timber bridge, 

 hoary with age, covered with lichens and moss- 

 embroidered ; wild clematis and honeysuckles 

 overrun the banks and dip into the water flowing 

 beneath. 



In the meadows immediately beyond the 

 bridge, the stream widens out into lagoons, where 

 (when the early morning frosts of autumn have 

 destroyed the weeds) is rare spinning for pike. It 

 was here, some years ago, that Francis Francis, 

 another friend, and myself, had splendid sport. 



The meadows beyond the bridge are boggy 

 along the margin of the stream, and the angler 

 sinks in over his ankles, so that water-tight knee- 

 boots are necessary ; but when frosts have hard- 

 ened the ground, the water can be comfortably 

 approached and fished. Handsome wrought-iron 

 gates, three centuries old, extend between the 

 entrance lodges ; the drive, through an avenue of 

 noble elms, crosses the stream over a stone bridge 

 of five arches, and ascends to the summit of the 

 park by a winding road, which skirts one side of 

 the lake, to the mansion a grand Elizabethan 

 structure, built on a terrace, reminding one some- 

 what of Hardwick Hall, in Derbyshire. It is said 

 to contain as many windows as there are days in 



