ST. MAWE'S CASTLE, FALMOUTH BAY.
Our pleasure seemed to amuse an old gentleman who sat in the corner. He at last addressed us, with an unctuous west-country accent which suited well his comfortable stoutness. He might have fed all his life upon Dorset butter and Devonshire cream, to one of which counties he certainly belonged. Not, I think, to the one we were now passing through, and admiring so heartily.
"So you're going to travel in Cornwall. Well, take care, they're sharp folk, the Cornish folk. They'll take you in if they can." (Then, he must be a Devon man. It is so easy to sit in judgment upon next-door neighbours.) "I don't mean to say they'll actually cheat you, but they'll take you in, and they'll be careful that you don't take them in—no, not to the extent of a brass farthing."
We explained, smiling, that we had not the slightest intention of taking anybody in, that we liked justice, and blamed no man, Cornishman or otherwise, for trying to do the best he could for himself, so that it was not to the injury of other people.
"Well, well, perhaps you're right. But they are sharp, for all that, especially in the towns."
We replied that we meant to escape towns, whenever possible, and encamp in some quiet places, quite out of the world.
Our friend opened his eyes, evidently thinking this a most singular taste.