Plymouth, with the adjoining towns of Devonport and Stonehouse, is one of the most important seaports in the Kingdom, the combined population being about two hundred thousand.  The harbor is one of the best and affords safe anchorage for the largest ocean-going vessels.  It is protected by a stupendous granite breakwater, costing many millions and affording a delightful promenade on a fine day.  Plymouth is the principal government naval port and its ocean commerce is gaining rapidly on that of Liverpool.  To Americans it appeals chiefly on account of its connection with the Pilgrim Fathers, who sailed from its harbor on the Mayflower in 1620.  A granite block set in the pier near the oldest part of the city is supposed to mark the exact spot of departure of the gallant little ship on the hazardous voyage, whose momentous outcome was not then dreamed of.  I could not help thinking what a fine opportunity is offered here for some patriotic American millionaire to erect a suitable memorial to commemorate the sailing of the little ship, fraught with its wonderful destiny.  The half day spent about the old city was full of interest; but the places which we missed would make a most discouraging list.  It made us feel that one ought to have two or three years to explore Britain instead of a single summer’s vacation.

[Illustration:  Rocks off Cornwall.

From Painting by Warne Browne.  Exhibited 1906 Royal Academy.]

From Plymouth to Penzance through Truro runs the finest road in Cornwall, broad, well kept and with few steep grades.  It passes through a beautiful section and is bordered in many places by the immense parks of country estates.  In some of these the woods were seemingly left in their natural wild state, though close inspection showed how carefully this appearance was maintained by judicious landscape gardening.  In many of the parks, the rhododendrons were in full bloom, and their rich masses of color wonderfully enlivened the scenery.  Everything was fresh and bright.  It had been raining heavily the night before and the air was free from the dust that had previously annoyed us.  It would be hard to imagine anything more inspiring than the vistas which opened to us as we sped along.  The road usually followed the hills in gentle curves, but at places it rose to splendid points of vantage from which to view the delightful valleys.  Then again it lost itself under great over-arching trees, and as we came too rapidly down a steep hill on entering Bodmin, the road was so heavily shaded that we were near our undoing.  The loose sand had been piled up by the rain and the dense shade prevented the road from drying.  The car took a frightful skid and by a mere hair’s breadth escaped disastrous collision with a stone wall—­but we learned something.

After leaving Truro, an ancient town with a recently established cathedral, the road to Penzance, though excellent, is without special interest.  It passes through the copper-mining section of Cornwall and the country is dotted with abandoned mines.  A few are still operated, but it has come to the point where, as a certain Englishman has said, “Cornwall must go to Nevada for her copper,” and there are more Cornish miners in the western states than there are in their native shire.