I came home from my last walk by the old harbour, admiring, as I had done a hundred times before, the wonderful lights on sea and land which one associates with St. Andrews in autumn; but feeling that I never cared to see the place again. Soon I went south, to Oxford, where Mgr. Kennard, who was again threatening for the _n_th time to resign, for reasons of health, his office of chaplain, had begged me to come and help him for as much of the Michaelmas term as I could spare. I found him, as a matter of fact, rather exceptionally well, and ready and anxious to recount to an intelligent listener (which I fear I was _not_, on this subject) every one of his golfing achievements during the past four months at Burnham, Westward Ho! North Berwick, and elsewhere. Although quite incapable of talking "golf shop," I contributed one anecdote (new, I believed), which I had brought from Nairn, and which pleased my old friend. It concerned a young man and maiden who were playing golf--the lady quite a novice--and had reached a hole which was on the top of a little hill. The youth ran up first to see the lie of the balls. "A stymie!" he shouted: "a dead stymie!" The young lady came up with a sniff. "Well, do you know?" she said, "I _thought_ I smelled something as I was walking up the hill!" I had been invited to preach Lovat's wedding sermon on October 15; but this, as well as much of the long choral service, had been countermanded {198} at the eleventh hour. I went up the day before to the family residence in Grosvenor Gardens: presents still pouring in, and such unconsidered trifles as diamond pendants, silver salvers, gold cigarette-cases, telescopes, and illuminated addresses, lying promiscuously about. A small army of newspaper-reporters (whom I was deputed to interview) swarmed in after dinner. There was a great gathering at the Oratory next morning, where the ample space beneath the dome makes a most effective setting for a wedding pageant. The bride's procession was a little late; and the stalwart bridegroom, supported by his Scots Guards brother, was (shall I say "the cynosure of all eyes" or the "observed of all observers"?--both good old _clichés_) in the full dress bravery of a Highland chief.[7] I went in afterwards to sign the register, while the _primo soprano assoluto_ of the famous choir thrilled out the Bach-Gounod "Ave Maria," as inevitable an accompaniment of Oratory weddings as "O for the Wings of a Dove" is of those at Sloane Street or Eaton Square. Mrs. Asquith (the bride's aunt) entertained us afterwards in the none too spacious reception rooms at 10, Downing Street, where the well-dressed mob, _more suo_, made play with their elbows in their quest for their own and other people's presents on the loaded tables. There were representatives from the bride's home in Ribblesdale, as well as a deputation of farmers from distant Beaufort; {199} and one heard intermittently the broad accent of Lancashire and the slow soft