There are some travellers who think when they cross the Tamar, overthat fairy bridge of Brunel's, hung aloft between the blue of the riverand the blue of the sky, that they have left England behind them onthe eastern shore—that they have entered a new country, almost a newworld. This land of quiet woods and lonely valleys, and bold brownhills, barren, solitary—these wild commons and large moorlands ofCornwall seem to stand apart, as they did in the days gone by, whenthis province was verily a kingdom, complete in itself, and owning nosovereignty but its own.
It is a beautiful region which the traveller sees, perchance for thefirst time, as the train skims athwart the quaint little watersidevillage of Saltash, and pierces the rich depths of the woodland,various, enchanting. Now the line seems strung like a thread of ironin mid-air above a deep gorge, now winds sinuous as a snak