action; and it would be hard to beat the picture of the fate of
Gruffanuf's husband. These and the rest are old friends, and there are
hosts of quaint scribblings, signed with the mark of a pair of
spectacles, scattered through the pages of _Punch_.



GOLF.


While pheasant-shooters are enjoying the first day of the season, the
votaries of a sport not less noble, though less noisy, are holding the
great festival of their year. The autumn meeting of the Royal and
Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews is in full swing, and the words will
suggest pleasant memories to many a golfer. Golf is not one of the more
brilliant and famous pastimes of the day, though it yields to none in
antiquity and in unassuming merit. The names of the winners of the gold
medal and of the silver cross are not telegraphed all over the world as
widely as Mr. Tennyson's hero wished the news that Maud had accepted him
to be. The red man may possibly "dance beneath his red cedar tree" at
the tidings of the event of one of our great horse-races, or great
university matches. At all events, even if the red man preserves his
usual stoicism of demeanour, his neighbours, the pale-faces, like to know
all about the result of many English sports the moment they are decided.
Golf, as we have said, excites less general enthusiasm; but in people who
love it at all, the love is burning, consuming; they will talk golf-shop
in season and out of season. Few persons, perhaps, will call golf the
very first and queen of games. Cricket exercises more faculties of body,
and even of mind, for does not the artful bowler "bowl with his head?"
Football demands an extraordinary personal courage, and implies the