cannot restrain his joy when the tyro at golf, after missing his ball
some six times, ultimately dashes off the head of his club against the
ground. Nor is he less exuberant when his patron's ball is deep in a
"bunker," or sand-pit, where the wretch stands digging at it with an
iron, hot, helpless, and wrathful. And yet golf is a sport not learned
in a day, and caddies might be more considerate. The object of the game
is to strike a small gutta-percha ball into a hole about five inches
wide, distant from the striker about three hundred yards, and separated
from him by rough grass and smooth sand-pits, furze bushes, and perhaps a
road or a brook. He who, of two players, gets his ball into the hole in
the smallest number of strokes is the winner of that hole, and the party
then play towards the next hole. All sorts of skill are needed--strength
and adroitness, and a certain supple "swing" of the body, are wanted to
send the ball "sure and far" in the "driving" part of the game. Nothing
is so pleasant as a clean "drive." The sensation is like that of hitting
a ball to square-leg, fair and full, at cricket. Then the golfer must
have the knack to lift his ball out of deep sand with the "iron," and to
strike it deftly "a half-shot" up to the hole with the "cleek;" and,
lastly, coolness and a good eye when he "putts" or hits his ball actually
up to the very hole.

Any degree of skill in these varied feats makes golf a delightful game,
if the opponents are well matched. Nor are the charms of scenery wanting
at St. Andrews, the headquarters of the sport. There is no more
picturesque town in Scotland than the little university city. From the
plain of the estuary of the river Eden, across the long leagues of marsh
land and the stretches of golden sand and brown, the towers of St.
Andrews--for it is a town of many towers--are seen breaking the sky-line.
Built on a windy headland, running out to the grey northern sea, it
reaches the water with an ancient pier of rugged stone. Immediately