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52 THE CORNWALL COAST ning or flowing," but the point is hardly clear. It is pleasant to turn from such disputations to the place itself, which has become famous in present- day romance as " Troy Town," the fanciful title bestowed by a gifted literary resident. The true street of this town may be said to be its river, where it is delightful to do one's business by water — much pleasanter than the narrow and somewhat dingy road that lies out of sight behind. Each garden has its boat moored at its foot, where the tide eternally whispers and gurgles and ripples. Sometimes the stream flows silently, though it may be with power; at other times it finds a voice by which the air is possessed and thrilled. The old stained walls, the rugged ladders by which the folk descend to their boats, are washed by the clear, pure waters ; the shimmer of water enters the dwelling-rooms and is reflected on the ceilings, a fluctuating quiver of light, moved by every breeze that ruffles the surface of the stream. The small gardens are green to the edge of the walls that drop sheer to the river ; these ladders and gardens are the true household gates. Here and there may be a small strip of quay, with the soil and grime of industry — perhaps the blackness of coal-dust ; but the prevalent flavour is domestic. Higher up the river there may be more dissonance, where the steamboats are being laden with china-clay and stone ; there is a clang of cranes, a rattle of machinery, a bustle out of unison with the placid water beneath, the dense woodland behind. Mari- time doings seem to lose much of their beauty when they are dependent on steam — they cannot lose it all. For pure beauty we must go to the sailing-boat, whether it be the fisher's smack with red or tawny sail, the graceful yacht of pleasure,