Mary Shelley 
Falkner 

The opening scene of this tale took place in a little village on the southern coast of Cornwall. Treby (by that name we choose to designate a spot, whose true one, for several reasons, will not be given, ) was, indeed, rather a hamlet than a village, although, being at the sea-side, there were two or three houses which, by dint of green paint and chintz curtains, pretended to give the accommodation of ‘Apartments Furnished’ to the few bathers who, having heard of its cheapness, seclusion, and beauty, now and then resorted thither from the neighbouring towns.
This part of Cornwall shares much of the peculiar and exquisite beauty which every Englishman knows adorns ‘the sweet shire of Devon.’ The hedges near Treby, like those round Dawlish and Torquay, are redolent with a thousand flowers: the neighbouring fields are prankt with all the colours of Flora, –its soft air, –the picturesque bay in which it stood, as it were, enshrined, –its red cliffs, and verdure reaching to the very verge of the tide, –all breathe the same festive and genial atmosphere. The cottages give the same promise of comfort, and are adorned by nature with more luxurious loveliness than the villas of the rich in a less happy climate.