elders and the quaint old mansion of Balcomie, itself overlooking

but the breach or the quiescence of the deep - the Carr Rock beacon

rising close in front, and as night draws in, the star of the

Inchcape reef springing up on the one hand, and the star of the May

Island on the other, and farther off yet a third and a greater on

the craggy foreland of St. Abb's. And but a little way round the

corner of the land, imminent itself above the sea, stands the gem

of the province and the light of mediaeval Scotland, St. Andrews,

where the great Cardinal Beaton held garrison against the world,

and the second of the name and title perished (as you may read in

Knox's jeering narrative) under the knives of true-blue

Protestants, and to this day (after so many centuries) the current

voice of the professor is not hushed.

Here it was that my first tour of inspection began, early on a

bleak easterly morning. There was a crashing run of sea upon the

shore, I recollect, and my father and the man of the harbour light

must sometimes raise their voices to be audible. Perhaps it is

from this circumstance, that I always imagine St. Andrews to be an

ineffectual seat of learning, and the sound of the east wind and

the bursting surf to linger in its drowsy classrooms and confound

the utterance of the professor, until teacher and taught are alike

drowned in oblivion, and only the sea-gull beats on the windows and

the draught of the sea-air rustles in the pages of the open

lecture. But upon all this, and the romance of St. Andrews in

general, the reader must consult the works of Mr. Andrew Lang; who

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