when the apple orchards—prides of Devon—are in full blossom; the hawthorns have donned their snow-white draperies; the gorse its garment of gold; and every hedgerow is rich in the hundred hues of flowers that herald summer: while all the hill-slopes and meadows, “in verdure clad,” seem rejoicing over the prospective abundance that Nature promises to healthy toil. We have passed through the fifty-three miles that separate Exeter from Plymouth. It would be hard to find in any part of the world, in equal space, a road so lavishly endowed with gifts of the fertile and the beautiful. Part of the way by the open sea, then by estuaries, then by the banks of broad rivers, then by narrow and rapid streams, then under the shadows of tree-clad hills, green from base to summit, with frequent views of prosperous towns and happy villages, with venerable churches continually showing their tall spires above the tree-tops—in thoroughly rural England, far from the tall chimneys and dense atmosphere that betoken manufactures and their results—the railway runs through many scenes of surpassing loveliness, any one of which might tempt the traveller who is in search of either health or pleasure, with assurance of an ample supply of both. The GREAT WESTERN conveys us from Paddington to Exeter. We leave Exeter by the South Devon Railway (proverbially well managed, in all respects): it may take us to Penzance; but its great station is midway, at Plymouth, where has been recently erected for the especial accommodation of railway travellers and tourists, an admirable hotel (the Duke of Cornwall—there is none more comfortable in the kingdom).[11] Here we arrest the tourist, in order to visit the promontory of Mount Edgcumbe, that occupies one side of the famous harbour.