the destruction of which John Knox was responsible. Many generations of
my forefathers slept side by side in one particular portion of the
cathedral grounds, and here my grandfather used to bring me to play among
the tombs and to spell out the names of kinsmen who had died a century or
more before my own earthly pilgrimage began. The whole place, with its
noble ruins of castle and cathedral, its grey and empty streets, its
venerable halls, its green links and fine coast-line, made a profound
impression upon my imagination as a child. To this day I can recall not
only the scene itself, but the sounds, the colours, the briny odours, the
very atmosphere of the place.

Golf was then, as now, the one great amusement of the citizens, though
there was this difference between the past and the present. In those days
the game was almost unknown to the rest of the world, and to all intents
and purposes St. Andrews had a monopoly of it. [Footnote: Blackheath, of
course, had then, as now, its ancient golf club.] We all talked golf,
even if we did not all play it. The shop-boys rose betimes of a summer's
morning to enjoy a round on the links before breakfast, and learned
professors and staid ministers gave their afternoons to the same
absorbing pursuit. Child though I was, even I had my clubs, and played in
my own fashion at the game.

My grandfather, who had retired from his business as a manufacturer of
flax some years before, had a number of poor relations and dependents
whom he frequently visited, taking me with him as a companion. Many of
these were weavers, and in those days the weaver carried on his craft at
home. I can see distinctly the little stone cottages in the narrow wynds
off South Street, which I was wont to visit; I can recall the whirr and
rattle of the loom "ben the house," and picture to myself the grave
elderly man who on my entrance would rise from the rickety machine in