L.
This morning we rambled down to Antony Passage, on the Lynher River, and hailed the ferryman to put us across to Antony Park, on the opposite shore. The Norman keep of Trematon Castle looks down from the Saltash side on to a mud-creek spanned at its junction with the broad Lynher by one of Brunel’s old wooden railway viaducts, its sturdy timbers stalking across the ooze with curious effect.
Landed on the opposite shore, we walked through the beautifully wooded park, passing Antony House, the seat of the Carews since the fifteenth century. The house was rebuilt in 1721, but contains a fine collection of old masters, among them a portrait of Richard Carew, who died in 1620.
Richard Carew, of Antony, was the author of the well-known “Survey of Cornwall,” published in 1602. In the original edition the work is one of great charm of manner, and the interspersed songs by the author are instinct with grace and nicety of epithet. In a very much later edition the editor has taken upon himself to modernise Carew’s orthography with sorry results to his engaging style.
Not readily could one gather verses of such delightful conceits as these, upon the Lynher River:—
ITEM.
And highest stalles in heauen his seat,
Then Lyners peeble bones he bares,
Who like a lambe, doth lowly bleat,
And faintly sliding euery rock,
Plucks from his foamy fleece a lock.
Before, a fence, now scarce a bound:
Children him ouer-leape at will,
Small beasts, his deepest bottome sound.
The heauens with brasse enarch his head,
And earth, of yron makes his bed.
His face in mourning weedes doth wrap,
For absence of his clearest die,
And drops teares in his Centers lap,
Lyner gynnes Lyonlike to roare,
And scornes old bankes should bound him more.
Rockes in his wombe, rickes on his backe,
Downe-borne bridges, vptorne wear’s,
Witnesse, and wayle, his force, their wracke,
Into mens houses fierce he breakes,
And on each stop, his rage he wreakes.
The Hinde his whelmed haruest hope,
The strongest rampire fear’s his shocke,
Plaines scarce can serue to giue him scope,
Nor hils a barre; whereso he stray’th,
Ensue, losse, terrour, ruine, death.”
And these verses show us the manner of the man:—
Ne shoulder clymers downe the stayres;
I vaunt not manhood by debates,
I enuy not the miser’s feares;
But meane in state, and calme in sprite,
My fishfull pond is my delight.
His forced banks, and Otters cage:
Where salt and fresh the poole renues,
As spring and drowth encrease or swage:
Where boat presents his seruice prest,
And well becomes the fishes nest;
Side-walking Crab, wry-mouthed Flooke,
And slip-fist Eele, as euenings passe,
For safe bayt at due place doe looke:
Bold to approche, quick to espy,
Greedy to catch, ready to fly.
In springe the mouth, the mids in neap;
With changelesse change by shoales they keepe,
Fat, fruitfull, ready, but not cheap;
Thus meane in state, and calme in sprite,
My fishfull pond is my delight.”
Antony village is considerably more than a mile distant from the park. It stands picturesquely on the road to Liskeard, on rising ground, entered past a communal tree, encircled with seats, after a good old fashion that seems nowadays but rarely perpetuated.
In the little street of Antony is a library of the most rudimentary type, a little reading-room supported by small subscriptions, and supplied with a few weekly and daily newspapers. We turned the door-handle and walked into this room of 10 × 7 feet; but, alas! there instantly came across the road a woman in whom (evidently) was invested the care of the place, who informed us that this was not a public reading-room, and who held the door open in the most suggestive way. We went.
“I’m sorry,” observed the Wreck upon going, “that we have intruded: I hope we have not injured your shanty.”
“No harm done,” replied the janitress, who was plainly acting upon a painful sense of duty. We adjourned to the church, and after ascending the many steps leading to it, sat down to argue the matter in the porch.
“See,” said the Wreck bitterly, “how despitefully one is used when tramping about on a walking-tour and carrying these abominable things,” and he unstrapped his knapsack with a vicious tug. “That woman ... took us for tramps, and that sort of thing hurts one’s amour propre.”
“Very correct estimate, too,” said I, flicking the dust off my boots with my handkerchief, “and one unlikely to tax her powers of discernment to an inconvenient extent.”
“’Been swallowing a dictionary lately?” inquired the Wreck with biting sarcasm.
“No, Ollendorff, that is not my method.” And then relations became strained.