“Now, I think it very much amiss,” remarks Sterne, in ‘Tristram Shandy,’ “that a man cannot go quietly through a town and let it alone, when it does not meddle¹ with him, but that he must be turning about, and drawing his pen at every kennel² he crosses over, merely, o’ my conscience, for the sake of drawing it.” I quote this wise and witty⁴ observation on a bad practice of some travel-writers, as containing the best reason that I can give the reader for transporting him at once over some sixty miles of Cornish high-roads and footpaths⁵, without stopping to drop one word of description by the way. Having left off the record of our travels at Liskeard, and taking it up again — as I mean to do here — at Helston, I skip over five intermediate market-towns and two large villages, with a mere³ dash of the pen. Lostwithiel, Fowey, St. Austell, Grampound, Probus, Truro, Falmouth, are all places of mark and note, and have all certain curiosities and sights of their own to interest the inquisitive⁶ tourist; but, nevertheless, not one of them “meddled” with me in the course of my rambles⁷, and acting⁸ on Sterne’s excellent principle, I purpose “letting them alone” now. In other words, the several towns and villages that I have enumerated⁹, though presenting much that was generally picturesque¹⁰ and attractive in the way of old buildings and pretty scenery, exhibited little that was distinctive

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