Three generations

272 MEN AND WOMEN MET BY THE WAY
the true artist and lover of Nature has seen the beauty
which his hand has been able to put on canvas, and
preserve for the benefit of fellow-mortals with duller
eyes. His fine sympathetic history of Scotch art is
likely to remain the standard work on the subject.
Cupar was not more than a round dozen of miles from
St. Andrews, the old ecclesiastical capital of Scotland,
where the first book printed and published in the
country saw the light, while it was also the seat from
an early date of a venerable and learned University.
There was, curiously, little intercourse between the
two towns, which I am afraid sounds like a reflection
on the intellectual aspirations of my town. However,
St. Andrews was resorted to for sea-bathing, and we
went there sometimes and stayed at St. Andrews,
having friends, when the town had still much of its
original character — that of a homely, remote fishing
village to which a famous ancient University was
attached. Communication was then not very easy,
and the place was not yet in danger of being haunted
by week-end trippers.
The old town was full of historical associations, with
their lingering traces in the older houses. From its
ruined castle, which kept the ruined cathedral in
countenance, Norman Leslie and his revengeful fol-
lowers hanged Cardinal Beatoun, because of the
burning of George Wishart and other martyrs on the
adjoining sea braes. John Knox, the great and good
reformer, was with the party. Whether he did or did
not utter a protest, he did consent to the expiatory
death of the Cardinal. In a house still inhabited
George Buchanan pursued his studies, when he had
not provoked the authorities to consign him to the
slimy depths of the bottle-necked dungeon in the