It has a bishop, and the rudiments of a cathedral.

It has burst into a local and spasmodic life.

But when I knew it through Arthur, it was the sleepiest and laziest town alive, with the water rippling through the streets.
Old-world farmers, with their strange nasal dialect, used to haunt the streets on market day, like the day on which we first drove through it on our way to Tredennis.

Arthur was well and serene.

He took the keenest delight in the fragrance of retirement that hung about the place: people to whose minds and ears modern ideas, modern weariness, had never penetrated; who lived a serious indolent life, their one diversion the sermon and the prayer-meeting, their one dislike "London ways." We reached the house in the evening, losing our way more than once in our endeavour to discover it.