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in large flakes, over house and church-steeple, away to the farthest end of the little wind-swept city. From the west, too, wind-currents find their way easily through it; so that there is no stagnant air, and no close vapours, but everywhere an openness, a skyey influence, and a largeness of air all about.

Approach it from the south—from the hills that bound it and the traveller sees it set in a framework of river, and sea, and wood; while the pilgrims of the middle ages, surmounting their last hill, halted at an iron cross which still stands on the Hill of the King, and, falling on their knees at sight of the sacred spires, thanked God that it was at length given them to behold the Divine with the eyes of flesh. Stand in the middle of the Links: between the gaps of the sand-hills flashes towards you the deep sunlit blue of the bay-waves; you feel on a platform ringed with deep-blue sea, which is itself again ringed with an outer and infinite sky. Skyborn of the sky the whole region looks; while the town itself seems a heavenly Jerusalem let down upon the nether earth to teach a higher doctrine to the sons of


The people are notoriously long - lived. You meet old men and women whom, from their experienced looks, you might judge to be well over a hundred; and exhausted constitutions of seventy come here, renew their youth, enjoy their lives, and hold on happily till ninety. It is the strong dry air, the absorbing exercise of golf, the play of social amenity, that lift them out of depression and senility. For here there



are traditions of culture and civility that have been passed on from century to century, and the influence of which leavens the social life and moulds the social

Here are more than a thousand years of Christianity; and the visible symbols of it, in tower and steeple and window, catch the eye at innumerable points. There are three distinct layers—the Celtic, the Roman, and the modern Protestant Christianity. The Celtic layer is represented by the leaning square tower of St Regulus, of the simplest form, but the most stern and solid character. The Roman layer is represented by the ruins of the Abbey, and the lovely window of the ancient monastery of the Blackfriars. While the Protestant-not constructive or architectural in any way -has raised for itself a number of the ugliest little chapels that even a Scotch town can boast of. But these traditions of Christianity and culture have left their mark most deeply on the character of the inhabitants. A sweet naïveté permeates the place.

“ One reverence still the untainted race inspires;

God their first thought, and after God their sires ;-
These last discerned Astræa's flying hem,

And Virtue's latest footsteps walked with them.” Clergyman, soldier, professor, physician, landowner, chimney-sweep, carpenter, ploughman, farmer, and tax-gatherer mix upon equal and brotherly terms, and each is always on the look-out to oblige his neighbour. Exclusiveness is neither known nor understood. On this happy plateau the schism of classes has never existed, but every man walks in a kindly atmosphere of neighbourliness and goodwill. The clack of disputing tongues, the appeal

to an unsympathetic and matter-of-fact law, the imputation of evil motives,—these things, so common in the smaller towns of Scotland, are never heard of in St Andrews. Here might Astræa Redux take lodgings for the sea-bathing of the summer months, and send her boys and girls to the schools and colleges for the winter. It is true there are religious sects, but these exist chiefly for the sake of friendly discussion, and the generous rivalry of doing good. Episcopalian and Presbyterian, Churchman and Dissenter, frequent each other's churches, and “fill ” each other's pulpits, and are eager for nothing but the promotion of the constant Gospel of Christ. Perhaps the old Roman Catholic form of Christianity is most weakly represented here. It has only one adherent, and he is a minor official of the town. But then his chief is an archbishop, and this does a great deal more than make up. Besides an archbishop, we have also a bishop—the distinguished nephew of the lasting poet Wordsworth. In addition to a bishop and an archbishop, the Presbyterian part of the community has also a city clergyman, who, to be in harmony with the general quaintness of the place, is known to fame and to both worlds as “the Country Parson.'

Two great interests share the life of the place—the University and Golf. The University is far from large, but it can boast of more famous men in proportion to its size than any other university in Great Britain. The quadrangle of St Mary's College has a quiet loveliness which attracts every one, and reminds the visitor of the Clarendon Press quadrangle at Oxford; and the steeple of the United College Chapel is of a simple beauty and perfect proportion unsurpassed—and not often equalled — by that of any piece of architecture either in England or on the Continent. The professors live—when they can—an enviable life of quiet study; and between them and the students the pleasantest relations subsist. Hundreds of men look back upon their academic days at St Andrews as by far the happiest in their lives. There they lie, far back in the happy fields of memory, a part of heaven rather than of earth, but every now and then carrying into the noise and hurry of the crowded street a wave of calm, a peace that hallows and soothes the fevered nerves, the bounding emotions, or the surging brain.

Golf is, however, the more permanent staple of the place. It is to golf that Andrew Bell most probably owes his moral education. Statements we print, moralities we utter, which the child learns by “heart” and repeats, have probably no effect whatever on the character; for there is no tertium quid, no mediating influence, by which they can cross over to the habitual thoughts and daily actions of a person; and it is these thoughts and actions that go to mould the coming man. But golf is in itself an education. It is an education of the highest value. It embodies and carries into practice one of the noblest arts—the art of living a good and healthy life. It trains to attention, to concentration, and to tranquillity. The player takes his stand in a condition of perfect balance : every power of body and mind, of nerve and muscle, is braced up, rallied to point, under the guidance of a single eye; the weapon is swung easily at the full stretch of the arm; it is slowly lifted, describes the largest possible circle, and descends with a concentration of sweep and force upon the ball, the whole ball, and nothing but the ball. The reflex action upon the consciousness of the player of a good stroke is probably more healthy and complete than any sense of virtue to which human mortal can in this life attain. The maxims : No zeal or hurry; act upon the largest circle; have a single eye; mind and body in perfect balance and free swing; the longest leverage you can find in your favour; never take your eye off your purpose, - these are surely as good maxims for living as any moral philosopher has yet been able to lay down. This presence of the maximum of thought with the minimum of anxiety,—this absolute freedom from care—this absorbing tranquillity,-approaches more nearly to the Greek idea of ataraxia than anything we possess in modern times. It is therefore the best preparation for the highest thinking—for that which is not to be attained by importunity and improbus labor, but which comes, if it comes at all, as a heaven-sent gift :

" Und wer nicht denkt

Dem ist sie beschenkt

Er hat sie ohne Sorgen.” That some golfers do not rise to the highest heights of human perfection is no argument against the splendid qualities of the game, but only a proof that these players are men of arrested development-have been content with a mean, have considered it as a finality, and have never looked beyond. But in a world like this, the chief object in self-education should be to connect all

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