To this I answer--Dear sir, or madam, no one who has known Troy was
ever yet capable of describing it. If you doubt me, visit the town
and see for yourself. I will for the moment suppose you to do so.
What happens?

On the first day you take a boat and row about the harbour.
"Scenery!" you exclaim, "why, what could you have more? Here is a
lovely harbour flanked by bold hills to right and left; here are the
ruined castles, witnesses of the great days when Troy sent ships to
carry the English army to Agincourt; here axe grey houses huddled at
the water's edge, hoary, battered walls and quay-doors coated with
ooze and green weed. Such is Troy, and on the further shore quaint
Penpoodle faces it, where a silver creek, dividing, runs up to
Lanbeg; further up, the harbour melts into a river where the old
ferry-boat plies to and from the foot of a tiny village straggling up
the hill; further yet, and the jetties mingle with the steep woods
beside the roads, where the vessels lie thickest; ships of all builds
and of all nations, from the trim Canadian timber-ship to the
corpulent Billy-boy. Why, the very heart of the picturesque is here.
What more can you want?"

On the second day you will see all this from the harbour again, or
perhaps you will cross the ferry and climb the King's Walk on the
opposite bank; you will see it all, but with a change. It is more
lovely, but not the same.

On the third day you will cast about in your mind to explain this;
and so in time you will come to find that it is the spirit of Troy
that plays this trick upon you. For you will have learnt to love the
place, and love, as you know, dear sir or madam, is apt to affect the