uth. Mr.
Baring-Gould derives its name, as that of the Fal, from the Celtic
_falbh_, which means the "running 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. Maritime 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, the schooner or barque of commerce. All these are
represented in this lovely harbour within its protecting sea-gates;
but none of them are represented intrusively; there is plenty of room,
and there are delightful creeks running up into utter woodland
solitude, like that one which is the pleasantest way of reaching
Lanteglos Church.

One feature of this Fowey creek is its constant clamour of seagulls.
From morning to night their voice can be heard, sometimes with a noise
of wrangling and discordance, sometimes in single cries of bodeful
complaint. Occasionally the din is such that it