ine.
Built on a windy headland, running out to the grey northern sea, it
reaches the water with an ancient pier of rugged stone. Immediately
above is the site of a chapel of immemorial age, and above that again are
the ruins of the cathedral--gaunt spires with broken tracery, standing
where once the burnished roof of copper flashed far across the deep. The
high street winds from the cathedral precinct past an old house of Queen
Mary Stuart, past ruined chapels of St. Leonard's, and the university
chapel with its lovely spire, down to the shores of the bay; and along
the bay run the famous "links," where the royal and ancient game has its
cradle and home. Other links, as Prestwick, or North Berwick, may vie
with those of St. Andrews in extent, or in the smoothness of the putting
greens, or in the number and hardness of the "hazards," or difficult
places; but none offer so wide and varied an extent of scenery, from the
melancholy stretch of the parallel sands to the hills in the west, the
golden glitter of the beach, beneath the faint aerial blue of the still
more distant hills across the firth, while behind is the city set on its
cliffs, and proud with its crown of spires. The reflected sunset lingers
on the walls and crags and towers, that shine imaged in the wet sands,
the after-glow hangs over the eastern sky, and these have their charm;
but their charm yields to that of golf. It is a sign that a man has lost
heart and hope when he dilates on the beauty of the scenery, and
abstracts his attention from what alone would interest him were he
winning--the "lie" of his ball. Who can stop to think of the beauties of
nature, when he and his antagonist are equal, and there are only two more
holes left to play in the match for the medal? It is a serious moment;
not one of the little crowd of observers, the gallery that accompany the
players, dares to speak, or even cough. The caddie who sneezes is lost,
for he will be accused of distracting his master's attention. The ladies
begin to appear in the background, ready to greet the players, and to
tell the truth, are not very welcome to the nervous golfer. Everything
turns on half an inch of leather in a "drive," or a stiff blade of grass
in a putt, and the interest is wound up to a really breathless pitch.
Happy he is who does not in his excitement "top" his ball into the
neighbouring brook, or "heel" it and send it devious down to the depths
of ocean. Happy is he who ca