— for, after all, old things are the best — by 'the ancient plaster on many of the houses, black, brown, and chequered with time; the crumbling slates on many roofs; the general aspect of quiet desertion.' In the midst of these appears the incongruous figure of a Calcutta attorney. He passes on to 'the small wonder of St. Andrews; a neat new street of good moderate-sized houses, called Bell Street, which has arisen facing the golfing links.' At the Links he finds a Union Parlour 'for the convenience of golfers; and in its neighbourhood a number of small lodging-houses, which are also a new feature of St. Andrews.' This Union Parlour is a great sign of a new time, for 'in my days the golfing apparatus was kept in dirty, upstairs rooms of the golf caddies.' Now, in 1894, on the site of the Union Parlour, itself long superseded by a Club, is rising a monster, red brick hotel. He finds a monument in course of erection to the Scotch martyrs: pronounced by his companion, in Scotch phrase '"a fulish thing."' Necessarily he goes golfing; and walking round the oft-trodden course is 'strangely affected.' He breakfasts with Sir David Brewster, Principal of the University; meeting a young man, one Doctor Lyon Playfair, who is already rising into eminence. He hunts up Professor Haldane (of the profusion of capitals), now Principal of St. Mary's College. Presently he leaves St. Andrews, never to return to it; but, before he does so, he goes to see an old servant of his Uncle's, Peggy Anderson. 'I found her, such is the habit and ability
