We had not advanced far into Devonshire before we perceived overland, in the distance before us, a great improvement in the face of the country, particularly distinguished by an abundance of trees. […] We observed no immediate distinction between the two counties [Cornwall and Devon] on the coast, which from Wellcombe to Hertland Quay still trends to the northward, rising in a succession of bold and lofty peaks. Some frightful rocks extend along the shore, at some distance from the land and considerably above water, which are regarded with great horror by seamen, for if a vessel is wrecked upon them there is no chance of preservation for any of the crew.

Near Hertland Quay the strata of rocks on the cliffs, and those which jut out into the sea, have been strangely rent and disordered, and bear about them the traces of some great convulsion. In some places they are forced out of their horizontal position into a gentle undulation, and in others are parted by a more violent disruption, and stand up vertically. They lie in all possible directions: some strata abut full into the middle of another layer; some incline towards each other, tending to the centre, in the shape of a wedge; some run in a straight line; others form a curve. All these varieties, the horizontal, the vertical, and every degree of inclination between, occur in a small space, and are all confusedly jumbled together. I do not know that it has been ascertained how far this dislocation and irregular intermixture of the strata extend inland; similar appearances have been observed in the southern parts of Devonshire, particularly on the borders of the river Exe, between Exeter and Exminster, and in the country round Plymouth.

Hertland Quay was the first village that we encountered on Devonshire ground and consists of a cluster of mean cottages, which have no evident comfort about them but that of being protected by a high mountain from the east wind, and the value of this immunity is counterbalanced by their full exposure to the west, which blows from the sea, and has left marks of its fury on the roof of every cottage. The situation of the village is more than commonly rude and romantic: to the right and left extends the coast in a line of towering cliffs of black rock; in front is a little harbour, marked out and secured by a semicircular pier, which might have formed one gentle feature in the scene had it not been for a reef of rocks beyond it, running far into the sea and rising in vast fragments, which presents no images but those of danger and destruction; behind, the prospect is at once bounded by a rugged mountain which overhangs the village, and thus completes its inclosure. The cottages are so uncouth and weatherbeaten that all their artificial appearances are nearly worn out, and they mingle with the rocks with so trifling an indication of contrast that one might imagine they were a part of the natural foundations of the place. They seem too to have undergone as many changes since their first formation as the strata of the rocks, and exhibit as much inversion of common order, and rise and dip in as many conflicting slopes and unaccountable obliquities.

This was the first place at which we had paused, during the course of our voyage, where there was no provision for strangers: we had surprised many hotels that were in a state of very doubtful extremity, but here was one still holding out a promise of entertainment, but in all its parts absolutely defunct. There was, however, a great spirit of hospitality in the landlord, mixed with some self-reproach for his improvidence, which sufficed to appease us; for, as Dr. Johnson observes, where there is yet shame, there may in time be virtue.

[Text may be taken from a different source or edition than that listed as the source by Somers Cocks.]