His castle (what remains of it) stands on a steep and lofty mound of earth at the northern end of the town, overlooking the streets and clustering roofs, and commanding a glorious panorama of the river Dart, winding deep amid the trees toward Dartmouth and the sea. These castle remains are very meagre: a low circular keep-tower, open to the sky, perched on an eminence studded thickly with tall trees--that is all. Below is a garden, with closely shaven lawn, where young men and maidens play tennis in summer months. Outside, in the street, an ancient archway, which was once the North Gate of the town, still stands. There is, in the retiring little Guildhall of Totnes, standing behind the church, sufficient interest for an especial visit. Low-browed rooms, oak-panelled, with leaden casemented windows set in deep embrasures, with dusky, glowering portraits of old-time worthies hanging against the walls--these are characteristic items toward a due presentment of the place. Here, too, are framed proclamations of Commonwealth period, commencing “OLIVER, by the grace of God.” Oliver, you shall see, is nothing less than “His Highness.” And now, having “done” the town, do not, I pray you who may essay to follow our wanderings, set out upon walking hence to Dartmouth. Rather should you voyage by steamer those eight miles, at your ease physically and mentally, this last happy condition attained by reflecting that such scenery is not otherwhere to be enjoyed, and that to voyage thus is the thing expected of all good tourists in South Devon. XLII. We took steamer from Totnes to Dartmouth. There are two classes aboard, “saloon” and “second,” and there is but threepence difference between the two. But the Wreck, who was paymaster this day, and is ever economically inclined, prudently bought two of the cheaper tickets, “for,” said he, “we are not travelling _en grande tenue_” (terms for translation may be had on application). So we took our places astern, and in due course arrived off the pontoon at Dartmouth. The Wreck, who was in charge of the pasteboards, handed them up. “Sixpence more, please,” said the collector. “What for?” demanded the Wreck. “You can see the notice,” replied the man; and he pointed to an inscription, “Passengers going abaft the funnel must pay saloon fare.” “But we didn’t go abaft the funnel,” said the Wreck; “we sat behind all the time.” “Behind _is_ abaft,” remarked the collector.... The Wreck paid the sixpence. “But,” said he, “I wish, next time you paint your boat, you would write up decent English instead of your confounded nautical slang, which no fellow can understand.” And so, as Pepys might have said, into Dartmouth, where we lay at the King’s Head. XLIII.