We were early risers, according to their reckoning at the Marine Hotel, and went for a walk over the golf links after breakfast. I was once a devotee of the royal game and was able to appreciate why the links by the sea are counted the finest in the world. Stretching along a sandy beach over which the tide advances and recedes incessantly, the links have unlimited sweep over the lawnlike lowlands, with just enough obstacles, mostly natural, to make a game of highest skill possible. The lowering sky of the preceding day had cleared and the keen wind swept in over the northern sea. We would have been glad to linger, if possible, but there was much to see in the old town which, in the words of Thomas Carlyle, "has the essence of all the antiquity in Scotland in good clean condition." Directly on the ocean stands the scanty but still imposing ruin of the cathedral, which in its prime was one of the most magnificent churches in the Kingdom. Its burnished roof once shone far out at sea and a wilderness of turrets and pinnacles rose round the central tower, long since vanished. The church was for some centuries the center of ecclesiastical life in Scotland. Its dedication took place in 1318, "as a trophy and memorial of Bannockburn," in the august presence of King Robert the Bruce. And yet it was only two hundred and forty years later that fanaticism sounded the doom of the splendid church; when the Presbyterian Council gave orders that the "monuments of idolatry" be pulled down. John Knox writes in his journal that the work went forward "with expedition," and for many years the marvelous Gothic pile served the people of St. Andrews as a quarry. The original outlines of the cathedral are clearly indicated on the smoothly mown greensward and give an adequate idea of its vast extent. The square tower of St. Regulus' Chapel is the only portion intact, and this we ascend by the dark, time-worn stairs inside. From the top there is a fine view of the town, a broad sweep of glittering sea and a far-reaching prospect to the landward. The town lies immediately beneath, spread out like a map, and from every direction the white country roads wander in to join the maze of crooked streets. Only a hundred yards away, on the very verge of the sea, is the castle, and we go thither when we descend. And we are rather glad to descend, for the wind blows so strongly that the tower trembles despite all its solidity--and one cannot help thinking of the Campanile at Venice.