So it fell out that I explored Antony church alone. A fair specimen this of Perpendicular architecture, crowded with monuments to the Carews of Antony, among them, one to the memory of the author of the “Survey of Cornwall.” Part of the inscription in Latin is by his friend Camden; the English verses are his own.

“The verses following were written by Richard Carew of Antony Esq. immediately before his death (which happened the Sixth of November 1620) as he was at his private prayers in his Study (his daily practice) at fower in the afternoon and being found in his Pocket were presented by his Grandsonne S^r Alexander Carew, according to whose desire they are here set up.

In Memory of him.

“Full thirteen fiues of years I toyling haue o’repast
And in the fowerteenth weary, entred am at last
While Rocks, Sands, Stormes & leaks, to take my bark away
By greif, troubles, sorrows, sickness, did essay
And yet arriv’d I am not at the port of death,
The port to euerlasting Life that openeth,
My time uncertain Lord, long certain cannot be
What’s best, to mee’s unknown; & only known to thee.
O by repentance & amendment grant that I
May still liue in thy fear & in thy favour dye.”

There remains in the chancel a handsome perpendicular brass for the foundress of this church:

A tablet on the wall of the south aisle, to Admiral Thomas Graves, of Thanckes, and his wife, recites the lady’s relationship of first cousin to “Mr. Addison.” It is quite refreshing to find the connection with literature so proudly displayed: I don’t know, though, how much of this recognition is due to the fame of Addison’s matrimonial alliance with the Countess of Warwick. This thought, my literary friends, should give us pause.

On the high ground near Antony are two huge modern forts, one commanding the Lynher River, the other, looking over to seaward, defending the western approaches to Plymouth Sound. Screasdon and Tregantle Forts mount between them over 200 guns.

We reached the sea again at Downderry, passing to it through a dishevelled village called Crafthole, where we saw our first Cornish cross. Downderry is a small and very modern settlement of seaside lodging-houses, set down amidst wild and lonely scenery beside the treacherous sands of Whitesand Bay, in which many bathers have been engulfed.

To come suddenly upon the lath-and-plaster crudities of Downderry in midst of such scenery as this is to experience a cruel shock.

Downderry need detain no one.

From here it is a long, rough, and lonely walk to Looe, beside the sea; now upon lofty cliffs, and again in deep valleys opening direct from the water, with sandy shores and rocky rivulets running down from the moorlands with laughing ripples and gushing cascades, all solitary and peaceful. We halted in one of these remotenesses.