“_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_.