Now were we in Cornwall, the land of fairies and piskies, and of prodigious saints and devils; the land of “once upon a time”—delightful period of twilight vagueness. According to John Taylor, who wrote in 1649—

“Cornewall is the Cornucopia, the compleate and repleate Horne of Abundance for high churlish Hills, and affable courteous people; they are loving to requite a kindnesse, placable to remit a wrong, and hardy to retort injuries; the Countrey hath its share of huge stones, mighty Rocks, noble, free, Gentlemen, bountifull housekeepers, strong, and stout men, handsome, beautifull women, and (for any that I know) there is not one Cornish Cuckold to be found in the whole County. In briefe they are in most plentifull manner happy in the abundance of right and left hand blessings.”

We supped, and read our correspondence, and despatched replies, and so to rest in the sweetest smelling of sheets and the downiest of beds, in bedrooms overlooking at a distance the Three Towns, the walls covered with texts and coloured prints representative of the domestic virtues.

In the morning Saltash wore another aspect, and we rather congratulated ourselves upon our choice. From our windows we saw the Hamoaze, the twin-towers of Keyham Yard, and the ships of the navy at anchor, among them the Gorgon, which the irreverent in these parts call the Gorgonzola, one of those turreted battle-ships whose shape and form can be closely imitated by taking a canoe and placing a portmanteau amidships of it, with a drain-pipe at top of that, and a walking-stick by way of mast—an unlovely type of vessel.

We were attracted, in the first instance, this morning, to Saint Budeaux, across the river from Saltash; but its singularity of nomenclature proved to be its only striking feature. The place is now becoming a Plymouth suburb, of healthy condition and prosaic appearance, encircled by military roads and forts, with scarps and counterscarps, ravelins and guns, and ? War Office marks everywhere. Sir Francis Drake was married in its church, and that, I think, is Saint Budeaux’s only noteworthy incident.

We walked into Plymouth from here, and were thoroughly tired before we reached its streets: distances round Plymouth are deceptive to strangers.

At every turn on the way there were evidences of the sea, either in creeks, where the salt mud lay drying until the next tide, or in distant masts and rigging seen over the house-tops of the town. Town, did I say? Nay, not one, but three towns, for are not Plymouth, Devonport, and Stonehouse coterminous, and famed in song and story as the “Three Towns” in all the distinction that comes of capital letters?

Yet why not four towns? Why should not Stoke Damerel—that name with the look and sound of some new and dreadful composite form of swearing—why should not Stoke Damerel, of ancient name, be accounted a fourth town? It is big enough, and certainly respectable enough, despite its name, which, locally, is Stoke, tout court. But in the growth of new districts here, how comes it that Ford is not a fifth town, nor Morice Town a sixth? These things are not for solution. Let us hie upon the Hoe again, and, by that disestablished tower of Smeaton’s, strain our eyes toward the newer lighthouse anchored on its reef far out to sea.

It is needful to get all the breeze you can before setting out upon any pilgrimage through the Three Towns; for, truly, slums are not peculiar to London. Coming westward, over Laira Bridge, and so through to Torpoint Ferry, they are plenty and noisome; explore the Citadel and the scaly, fishy purlieus of the Barbican; but leave, oh! leave those slums to stew undisturbed.

Better is it to voyage across the Sound to the loveliness and fresh air and altogether sub-tropical domain of Mount Edgcumbe, whence this trinity of towns may be seen stretched out like a plan, with the Hamoaze, the many creeks and pools and inlets running in every direction.

The beauty of Plymouth’s site is, indeed, undeniable, whosoever may disparage it; nor may the splendour of its admirably centralised public buildings be gainsaid. Plymouth Guildhall is one of the most magnificent of modern buildings in the west—Gothic, good in design and execution; its windows, filled with stained glass, representing celebrated scenes in local history, from ancient days until that year in the ’70’s, when the Prince of Wales opened this building. This last event is duly shown in gorgeously tinted glass, but the Prince’s frock-coat is scarcely beautiful nor his silk hat an ideally fit subject for treatment in a stained-glass window. Let us laugh!