To discover the secret of its wonderful charm is not the least of the problems of golf. It is a game that encourages the reflective and philosophical mind to close investigation, and so it is not enough for the worthy player that he should take the things that he sees and feels for granted, with no questions concerning the mystic influences that seem constantly to brood over the links, and the people who are of them. Each day as we go forward to the game, and in particular if it marks the beginning of a special period of play, we feel these influences strong, and it may happen that for a moment we wonder again as to their cause and their origin.

Many minds have made great efforts towards the discovery of this secret, but the fruits thereof have not been satisfying. Golf is not like other games which stir up great enthusiasms in their players. Long spells of failure or of ambition thwarted often kill the passion that has fed the energy of the players of these games; but that is not the case with golf, and golf almost alone. Nor does a surfeit of play lessen the desire for it as it does in the case of other field sports, which need close seasons for their healthiness. When one day’s golf is over, the thought is of the next that will succeed it, and the hope already goes forward to anticipation of the superior delights that may be in store. And it makes the same appeal to all persons of all classes who once attach themselves to it, and it has been found that the golf impulses are as strong in the men of other races and of other colours as they are in the British who have cultivated the game. This universality, the constant enthusiasm, the unweariedness of the golfer, and the intense ardour that distinguishes him from the players of other games, suggest to us that some strong emotion of the human mind is touched by golf in some peculiar way, that its principles and the conditions of its play make a special appeal to some elementary feature of simple human nature; for it is the appeal to these primitive instincts that is always the strongest, the most overpowering.

Upon this line of investigation we come upon a clue that leads us to a more satisfactory idea as to the secret than any other which has been suggested. The strongly humanising tendencies of the game are evident to all, and admitted. No cloak of convention can be worn over the manners and thoughts of the player; he is the simple man. And what are the subtle features of the primitive instincts that are awakened in him so constantly, at almost every stroke, in every round, and on every day? It is sometimes difficult to seize upon them, floating in a vagueness as they do, but it does seem that all the strong emotions of the golfer combining to make up his grand devotion to the game, are clustered round the simple human instinct, most human and most potent of all, the instinct of Hope. It is this hope that leads the golfer on through all his troubles and disappointments, and it still urges him forward when he has already ascended to a great delight. It is a hope that will never permit complete satisfaction. This simple formula that the mystic charm of golf is hope, will explain all the emotions that rise up in the golfer in the course of a year of play. Take him from the first tee to the end of his game. It is the fresh morning, and the ardour of the golfer is warm within him, and he has a yearning and a high hope for a great day’s sport. Here, on the teeing ground, he is animated by a great desire to play the first hole as well as ever before, and to drive a clean far ball that shall speak well of his skill and make good augury for the strokes that are to come. If he succeeds his hope but increases. Does he play the tee shot badly, and his hopes go forward to a great recovery with the second shot of the game. If that should fail, vexatiously, there may still be the chance of a wonderful approach, and though the approach be not so wonderful, is there not the possibility that the gods may be so kind as to steer a very long putt into the hole? These are exactly the alternating sentiments; and if the fulfilment of the hope be denied to the last putt, and the hole be lost, at the second tee there is hope again that the indifferent start will be succeeded by a flash of brilliance as shall restore the position and the complete equanimity of the player.

And so it is from shot to shot and from hole to hole all the way round the course, and “Spero meliora” is the eternal motto, even though the present state be happy. If the whole round be weak and the result of it adverse, there is the hope of the afternoon; and at the end of the day the unfortunate golfer, moved almost to despair by his failures, soon recovers again that optimism which is his constant succour, and then his hopes are of the morrow. Does he not know now what it was that he was “doing wrong,” the golfing sin that he committed all the day? To-morrow the fault shall be corrected, and the swings that are made in after-hours now give fair promise of a great change. A well-prepared heart has the golfer, the like of which, as Horace says, hopes in the worst fortune, and in prosperity fears a change in the chances. Give it that the man has golfed above his true ability, and how he does fear that the next game may put him back again; but here again there is buoyant hope in evidence, and when the evening is filled with the exaltation of it, how sweet it is to wander a little over the resting, deserted links and mark the places where balls were pitched, and the lines along which fine putts were made, and the points to which play shall be directed when the next round is in the making, perhaps the best of all.

So it is hope and hope all the way through the golfer’s life, and it is the most joyous, the most uplifting of all the instincts, and the most intensely human, and that which is given to man alone. It is because golf strikes always this chord in his nature that it makes the strong appeal to him. There is no other game or sport that permits him to hope through failure in the same way, that leads him on, coaxes him, cajoles him, even fools him. And this drama of the emotions of the individual is played always in the most perfect setting for such a simple human play—the sea and green fields and plain earth, and the simplest tools to move a little white ball, not along marked lines or within narrow limits or in protected arenas, but anywhere along that green grass, over the hills and through the valleys and across the streams and rushing rivers, while the wind blows now this way and then that, and the rain pours. All the time the golfer pursues the little ball, alone with plain nature and his human adversary. Here he is released from all the conventionalities of mind that hold him in his other doings in this complicated civilisation. The primitive instincts are in command; they have the fields and the sea for harmony in the scene, and the golfer is away from all the intricacies of the twentieth century, and is the simple man and the hopeful man.

That is a fair creed concerning the command of golf, and we may reject the theory that indomitable, persevering mankind finds the fascination of the game merely in the failures and irritations that it brings and in the desire to overcome them. The activity of that instinct of hope is the mystic charm, and surely it is to the credit of a game that it should teach the man to look forward with courage and cheerfulness, and to be always something of an optimist, and the more of it the better for his game. These things lead to the making of a good man as well as a good golfer.

II

Men of other races, whose skins are not white, are afoot with this game. Black men are playing; yellow men are becoming expert; red men have achieved great skill. A few years since a golfer traveller found his way to the Blackfeet Reservation in Montana, and he saw the wild Red Indian at golf, and thought that it suited him better than his old game of lacrosse. Spotted Horse drove off along the prairie—a plain prairie with only a few shrubs about—and he followed and played the ball for a couple of miles to the turn, and then played it back. There were no holes; the game was to play the course in the fewest strokes. Here, indeed, is the primitive golf. Some of the Indians are said to have made fine drives—as good as the best that white men do—and this was all the more remarkable inasmuch as it is the Red Indians’ pretty custom to yell and howl in a frightful chorus while one of their number is addressing the ball preparatory to making his stroke. So it does not seem easy to put the red men off.

Golf, indeed, is the one world game; it is in essence that very simple sport which so easily and certainly spreads over the planet. Everywhere the British are pioneers, and they are by far the more numerous players; but native proselytes are coming in fast in almost every quarter of the globe, so now it may fairly be said that no other game is being played everywhere by so many different sorts of people as this game of ours. Sit on a magic carpet and be transported to any place, and there, somewhere about you, will be a golf course.

I have lately had some talk with men from the East, who tell of the good game that half-naked tribesmen, standing and walking in bare feet, have learned to play; and, moreover, of the beautiful clubs, most exquisitely finished and sometimes inlaid with ivory and fancy woods, that they have made. I am assured that the “professional champion of Ceylon” is a Cingalese caddie who holds the record for the Ridgeway course, made when he was playing against a British golfer of thoroughly good class. The Japanese are beginning to play, and good judges have been led to express fears that their qualities and temperaments will bring them to a higher state of perfection in the short game than has ever been attained before, and which will surely threaten the supremacy of the white man. Golfing at Kobe is a peculiar experience. The course is at Rokkosan, on the top of a high mountain, and you must therefore climb the mountain before you can golf on the course. You go by rickshaw to the foot of the Cascade Valley, and are then carried up the mountain slope by coolies for an hour and a half, when the tees and the bunkers come into view. Those who play there hold that the view from this course is the finest from any, though it can hardly be better than that from the course on the top of Senchal Hill at Darjeeling, for from here there is Kingenjunga, 28,000feet high, to be seen, and from the summit of Tiger Hill, overlooking the course, there is Mount Everest itself in view.

And there is golf in China too, six clubs for it. We had no sooner come to the conclusion and officially announced some years ago that Wei-hai-wei was a very desirable resort, than the golf club was duly established there. In these days the building prospector first settles upon his golf course, and advertises it, and then he builds his houses round about; and in the same way it is realised that it is the proper thing when seeking to make a new centre of Europeans abroad to start with a golf course. I have been with men on shipboard who, having golfed on the queer course of Tangier, have then speculated unceasingly in the smoke-room as we sailed along the smooth waters of the West African coast about the kind of golf that would be vouchsafed to them on reaching the Canary Islands. Some time since I had a letter from a highly-placed British official at Chinkiang on the Yangtse River, and he told me how they had just begun to play the game out there on a new course which was covered with crater-like excrescences. These are Chinese graves, and they are said to make most excellent hazards. There are pig-tailed fellows for caddies, and it was carefully ascertained that no Chinese sentiment is injured in the matter.

There are golf clubs in all the States of Europe. There are very many in France, and there are more each year, and it is remarkable that the Frenchman is now establishing them for his exclusive use. At Boulogne the Englishman and his friends of France golf together on a course where some of the hazards were the earthworks of Napoleon’s camp—the camp that held the Grand Army that lay in readiness for the invasion of Britain. What irony is here—that the British golfer should play over the Emperor’s camp! The Master-General must himself have walked many times over the lines of our tee shots, and the shadow of the monument that he built to commemorate his invasion of Albion, almost lies across the course from which Albion herself, uninvaded, may be seen. And the Mayor of Boulogne gives prizes to the British golfers who make the best golf on Napoleon’s camp. I come to realise the depth of the meaning of the lines cut into a marble tablet that I saw on the side of a staircase in the Museum at Boulogne one day—“France and England have more good sense than all the world,” and those lines were put on the stone more than sixty years ago.

France is fair and free, but the game is played in Europe where the times and conditions are not at all the same. There is golf in Russia, and to it there was added a new course but recently. At the first thought it seems a little odd that such a peaceful game should be played in holy and revolutionary Russia even by Britishers. They have had two courses in Russia for a long time past—one near Moscow and the other at Mourino, a small village a few versts out from St.Petersburg. The men who play here are of a hardy, determined strain, fine men for pioneers. To get their golf they have to drive thirteen miles out from the capital over bad roads; and in order to obtain a fair amount of satisfaction from their game they have to returf their putting greens almost every year, owing to the extreme sandiness of the soil. The Kaiser is encouraging the game in Germany, and has given prizes for it; there are eight clubs in Italy; and others in Austria, Holland, Belgium, and all the rest. The game has flourished for twelve years past in the dominions of the Sultan of Turkey, that is to say at Bagdad, and the golfers there are pleased to tell you that their course is no miniature affair as are so many at the outposts of the empire of St.Andrews, but that it consists of full eighteen holes, and that, in the desert, they are very sporting indeed.

It goes without saying that the game flourishes greatly in all the Colonies. In Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and the others there are little booms of golf in progress, each of its own kind. At Pretoria and at many places at the Cape the greens consist of diamondiferous gravel, smooth and sparkling, and the first local rule of the Kimberley Club startles the newly-arrived golfer from the homeland, for it tells him that “It shall be lawful for a player to level the ground on the putting green in any manner he pleases.” In India there are some forty flourishing clubs, and that at Calcutta, with its five hundred members and two courses of nine holes each, having been established for nearly eighty years, takes rank as one of the premier clubs of the world. There is the Aden Club in Arabia, the Royal Bangkok in Siam, where an old and very imposing Siamese temple does duty for clubhouse, and others all over Asia, as one might almost say. There are many golf clubs in the Argentine Republic and the other South American States. The Sandwich Islands are full of the game, for there are five clubs there. In the East Indies there are three, and in the West Indies there are eight. Wherever the Britisher goes he leaves his trail of golf behind him. There is a story of Captain Adair holding a golf competition in his camp when pitched on one of the passes leading into Thibet, at a height of sixteen thousand feet above the sea-level. I have no information about the game having been played in the North Polar regions; but I am told that when the recent British Antarctic Expedition was made in the Discovery, the Commander, Captain Scott, who is a keen golfer, took some clubs down there with him, and in some leisure moments “had a knock,” by way of reminding him of the old links at home, and of seeing what the sensation of South Polar golf was like. It is said that forged iron has a peculiarly cold and numbing touch in the frozen south.

It is the same game everywhere, and the law is always taken from Fifeshire; but the conditions and makeshifts are sometimes peculiar. We have said how at the Cape they putt on gritty earth that smacks of diamonds, how in China there are graves for bunkers, and how across the Channel, Napoleon’s trenches serve for the same purpose. Boulogne, after all, is only in the nature of a corollary to our courses at Walton Heath and Huntercombe, for hereabouts the golfers play where the legions of mighty CÆsar were encamped, and the stables and the kitchens that CÆsar made, huge pits deep in the earth, are in the line of play, and things are so arranged that they constitute fine traps for erring balls, and offer remunerative opportunities for skill with iron clubs in playing out of them. And yet, if one must play bad shots, it is well that they should be played in the direction in which CÆsar dug, for these pits were made so long ago and are so deep that they are often beautifully turfed with soft springy stuff, which anywhere except in a pit would be a delight to play from, being so congenial to one’s iron. We must applaud the Romans in this matter. It is nearly a pleasure to go into their kitchens and stables; they were made so long ago and they are so green and nice. There is golf at Old Calabar on the West Coast of Africa, and there the putting “greens” are made of fine coal dust. So they are “blacks.” At Mexico and many other places they are merely “browns.” In Egypt, where there is much golf, they are often made of rolled and baked Nile mud.

It is not necessary to say that there is nearly as much golf played in America as there is in Britain, and that the time may possibly come when there will be more. But it is not generally appreciated on what old-established foundations American golf is played. The game has traditions in America now, even as in Britain. In the archives of American golf there is still preserved a document which shows how little of a new thing is the game in the United States. It is an invitation, reading as follows: “Golf Club Ball.—The honour of Miss Eliza Johnston’s company is requested to a ball, to be given by the members of the golf club of this city, at the Exchange, on Tuesday evening, the 31st inst., at seven o’clock. (Signed) Geo. Woodruff, Robert Mackay, Jno. Caig, Jas. Dickson, Managers; Geo. Hogarth, Treasurer. Savannah, twentieth December 1811.” The original is in the possession of the granddaughter of the recipient. There seems to be some suggestion that these pioneers of American golf were of Scottish origin, as pioneers of the game until lately mostly were, and it might be appropriate to mention that Savannah, whose people are said to be celebrated for their love of pleasure, piety, and sport, has in it the oldest theatre in the United States, while it also claims to have started the first Sunday school in the world, founded by Wesley and perpetuated by Whitefield. If it started here, this was not a bad place for American golf to start at.

III

Rulers, statesmen, diplomatists, begin to take more serious account of the sport-loving factor in human nature than has been their wont. Downing Street, Washington, the Quai d’Orsay, and all the other nerve-centres of international affairs, where there are housed all the cleverest modern masters of opportunism, have entered upon the study of its peculiarities and tendencies, recognising that here is an instrument of the most delicate perfection for the cultivation of amity between people and people when the bureaucrats have set the lead. The British Empire is being soldered up with sport. Besides the constant visits of Colonial cricketers, have we not had with us recently two separate detachments of Colonial footballers, and has it not been evident that while the Colonial Governments have given their representatives the most open and material support, even to the extent of voting them certain supplies, Downing Street has smiled approvingly, and has, now and again, when not many people were looking, given a pleasant little pat to the wheel of friendship as it went rolling along from Cornwall to Edinburgh, and from Blackheath to Dublin? And was it not an open secret that the “very highest influences” were brought to bear upon the controlling authorities, with a view to avoiding the recent breakage in the regular sequence of Anglo-Australian encounters on the cricket field? The entente cordiale with France is being promoted from a toy model to a big machine that is working in the streets, largely as the result of the awakening of popular sympathies by such means as games. All the congruous elements of different countries far apart are being attracted to each other, as if magnetically, by such influences as the motor car, the bicycle, cricket, football, and, far from least, by golf: and the potency of these charms lies in the fact that when they are set to work, men’s minds are relaxed from the general materialistic sternness of their business times, and the humanity in them is asserting itself.

Now, all those good men who take the cosmopolitan view of human happiness must see that among all games with powers like this there can be none of greater adaptability and general use and efficiency than golf. It may be, and is used by people of every colour, race, creed, and temperament, in every climate and all the year round. No recreation, apart from the simplest contests of the river and field, has ever been so universal since the world began, with the single exception of chess. And wherever and whenever it is played it extends its benign influence towards the promotion of fast friendship among the players. There is no freemasonry like the freemasonry of golf. To its temples in every land are always welcomed the faithful and earnest craftsman from where’er he came, and he is passed on the signs of the bag and the stance and the little pimpled ball. For it is one of the articles of belief that no man can be a good and enthusiastic golfer of experience and at the same time a thoroughly bad fellow, for at the outset of his career the bad fellow would never be happy in his game; others would not help to make him so, and he would either be stung by the consciousness of his own defects and reform, or he would slip away into the small silent pitiable minority who leave the links one day never to return. Thus has our happy game of golf wound a bright cordon round the world, and so does she play her part in the great evolution of general contentment.

IV

“In spring,” we have been told in the Georgics, “heat returns to the bones.” And the blood runs eagerly through the golfer’s veins. April and May are the months of hope and of exultation. There is joy in the present, in the showers and the sunshine, and a great joy in prospect in the future. Each true golfer is a lover of Nature, and something of a philosopher, and at this season, as at no other, when he gets wakened on a bright morning and sees the country clean and fresh, and coming again into bright green and many colours, while the birds sing at allegro and fortissimo, a deep pleasure fills his being, the pleasure of spring. He is alive, alive; and it is fine to be alive. Summer is glorious, autumn is beautiful, cold winter has charms for those who have proper feeling for it; but spring, the Germinal, is surely Nature’s favourite season, and the golfer must always love his spring.

It gives him hope and thought. Change always induces reflection, and here we have the change of the seasons, and a little of all of them in a short space of time. An old proverb says that “April borrows three days of March, and they are ill.” But as often she borrows several days of May, and they are warm and sunny, and so hereabouts we have the winds, and the showers, and the sunshine; and who can walk on the links to-day and not think something of what the rain has been doing, and what the winds have done, and what the sun is doing and is going to do? Here they are all together, great master wonders to be thought much of. They are much to all men; everything to the sportsman and the folks of the outdoor life.

The sun and the rain are in such daily association in the days of the sportsman’s spring, and more than ever is he inclined at this season to give some passing thought to the phenomena of Nature, that one comes to wonder sometimes whether he reflects as he might do on the eternal exchange, how the drops of water that the sun takes up from the fields over which he tramps, the golf links that he plays over, the rivers and streams that he fishes, are every one of them placed back again, perhaps not on the same fields or in the same rivers, but in some field or river somewhere. The bare fact is one of elementary knowledge; but its extensions are not so much so, and are interesting to think upon. If the sun always gave back to each particular sportsman the rain that it had taken away from his own playing fields and rivers, how dull would his life be from the knowledge of what the weather and the seasons had certainly for him in the future? With the caprice of the clouds and the wind there is no such even and regular return of that which was taken away. The golf links of the Lothians may be kept rained upon and moist so that the turf is the most perfect, all with the rain that was sucked up from the courses of the south coast of England, round about Deal and Sandwich and Rye; and surely when the links in the south are parched, and when they are green and moist in the north, we must think of that.

V

It behoves every earnest golfer to keep a match-book in which there shall be faithfully recorded the results, with some particulars, of all the matches whatsoever that he shall play in the course of each season. Yet it is likely that not more than two or three golfers in every club, if indeed so many, keep such a record of the golf that they have played, which is sinking away into the forgotten history of their golfing lives. The idea of the private match-book may have occurred to many golfers, who, on a careful consideration of the circumstances of the case, have rejected it, though it goes without saying that the chief reason for the absence of the book in the majority of cases is simple neglect. Those who deliberately avoid the intellectual pleasures of the match-book do so either because they conceive that there is something namby-pamby in the thing, and that it savours too much of the keeping of a little diary which so few people know how to keep, consequently degenerating into a record of the trivial acts instead of the life-governing thoughts; or they are deterred by the fact that there are no such books with ruled columns ready for the purpose which are at all agreeable to their ideas as to what a match-book ought to be. Certainly there is no ready-ruled match-book; the little things to fit the waistcoat pocket are hopelessly inadequate, and really are only fit for doll’s golf, so that it is one of the things to wonder at that there are still apparently some thousands of golfers—beginners for the most part, you may be sure—who buy these trifles year by year.

But perhaps it is as well that there is no stereotyped form of match-book, to which we might be persuaded to attach ourselves with some misgivings as to its form, and the irritation that would be caused us in the future by the attempt to fill up constantly one particular column that might seem to be either unnecessary or suggestive of indelicate revelations. You will not find the ideas of many men in agreement as to what ought to go down in the book and what ought not. One will want spaces reserved for full particulars as to wind and weather, of the ball with which he played, and of the many other little details of varying importance, forming the sum of the circumstance of the day’s golf. Another will have a horror of such conceits, and will limit his confessions to statements of the date, the opponent, and the result. As in other matters, the medium is the happiest choice; but the difference of taste which could not be accommodated by so many different varieties of match-book, suggests at once that the proper course to pursue is for each player to purchase a perfectly plain book and rule it off in so many columns to his own satisfaction; or even, indeed, for the sake of a neater and less formal appearance, and an arrangement which is more accommodating, leave it blank, and let the facts of the match be inserted in order, just as the man is disposed to insert them at the time of the entry. Then a blank column will not in after years convey any reproach in the matter of a possible suppression of the truth, nor one overcrowded tell too much a tale of despondency and excuse on the one hand, or on the other of that boastfulness that comes not well from the heart of a good golfer.

Now the beginning and the continuation of a match-book is a serious matter, and the golfer will do well to come to an understanding with himself beforehand as to the policy that he will pursue in regard to it. It is essential that the strictest truth, and all the essential truth, should at all times be set down, and it is only a simple extension of the principle involved that if any matches are to be recorded they must all be so. The chronicler of the time must not consider himself as historian, and set himself to discriminate between what is important and what is trivial; for, as in all things, it will be many years hence, when the matters have been well sifted in the cold recollection of the mind, before such a determination can be accurately made. Therefore it is the duty of the chronicler to state the full facts, that is to say, as full as he determined they should ever be according to his system of match-book keeping, and he must leave it to himself in after years, when, the chronicler now exalted to the student of his own history, he can ponder over the statements in his leisure and make such judgments upon them as he is disposed. Thus it is of the essence of the proper making of such match-books that no fault of the maker at any time or in any game shall be in any way extenuated, and that nothing to the discredit of the opponent shall be set down maliciously, so that in days to come, when the player shall have advanced many more seasons towards the end of his golf, in turning over these pages and with their honest help fighting his matches over again, he shall truly behold “the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.” So it seems that the best match-book should rightly be a strictly private thing; if it were meant as a book for the table or any other place where it might be exposed to the gaze of the curious, there might at some time come a reluctance to the owner to state in full the truth of the day’s play, since the honest criticism of a partner in a foursome or of an opponent, to some who did not understand, might not appear so necessary as was actually the case. This faithful record should be kept under lock and key, and it should be taken with him when the golfer goes far afield for play which is to last more than a day, and the entries should be made on the night of each day. It will be soon enough for others to pry into this confessional when the golfer who whispered into it at nights is no more. That such present labour will afford a rich sequence of future pleasure there can be no doubt. Just as there are no friends like the old friends, and no wine like the old wine, so one is sometimes disposed to fancy that there is no golf like the old golf that is now indeed but a memory, and one often much too dim at that. The match-book will refresh the mind to the recollection of dear friends with whom one is no longer associated, and of fine sport that one had with them on days when the thrills of life seemed to be a little quicker than they are now. By the mention of an incident, and occasionally by giving the score of a few holes, much of the whole game, shot and shot, is conjured up in the memory in all its keenness and its tensity.

And it shall come as a good recommendation in this matter that the golfer who is the favourite hero of us all, as he was a pattern of the golfing virtues, made a match-book for himself while he was still playing the schoolboy golf, and kept it continuously for the rest of his time. Freddie Tait’s match-book was just what we might expect it to be. It was a very honest thing, and Mr.Low, who has handled it and copied some of it for the deep interest of us all, remarks on the way in which the brave soldier golfer never spared himself, his partner, nor his opponents, but dealt out praise and censure with a level hand. One day, though he had halved his round, he says, “Played as bad a round as possible”; and at another time his comment is, “Never played worse with the exception of a few iron shots.” Then as to a foursome it is, “The characteristic of the game was the bad play of both”; and of his partner in another match he remarks, “The play of Mr.—— was feeble in the extreme.”

There were eight column divisions in Tait’s match-book. First there was the place for the date, then for the name of the links, and the third for the statement of the parties to the match. The fourth column was for the mention of the odds of the handicap if any, or for the name of the competition if he was engaged in one. Then there was one column for holes won and another for holes lost, a broad one for “remarks,” and a last little one at the side of the page for the total of the score. Generally the “remarks” were brief and pointed, and it is these which make the record of the play of the most beloved golfer we have known so real and human, so that it is a pleasure to sit by the fire and create some fancies of these matches. Now and then there is a little humour; here and there a touch of sarcasm at the expense of “F.G.T.,” as he generally referred to himself. Round by round there is the full story of the way in which he won the championship at Sandwich, and the next entry concerns the very next match that he played, which was the day after at Rye, when, with his honours new upon him, he essayed the task of playing the best ball of Mr.H.S. Colt and Mr.J.O. Fairlie. The remarks run: “H.S.C. and J.O.F. too strong for the golfed-out Champion, to whom they showed no mercy. H.S.C. and J.O.F. both played a good game and did some very fine holes.” Here there is a 6 in the “Lost” column, and it is a notable thing that this, on 23rdMay, was the first figure that had appeared in this column of defeat since 16thApril, though golf was being played almost every day. In his comments on the final of that same championship he twice pays compliments to the pluck of Mr.Hilton, who in the game was very soon left without the slightest chance of victory, and was beaten by a full eight holes. The gods would never permit the favourite Freddie to be beaten by the finest player of his time, and that player now refers to his early engagements with the soldier as the day when Tait “commenced his career as the slaughterer of Hilton.” Another day we find Freddie revelling in two glorious matches with Andrew Kirkaldy on the new course at St.Andrews. In the morning he lost by a couple of holes, but in the afternoon he was the winner on the last green. “Another splendid match,” he rejoices; “both in great form. F.G.T. only halved the third hole by carelessly moving his ball with hand while removing a piece of grass. The hole was played out and won by F.G.T., but he had, of course, to lose a stroke, according to the rules of golf. This unfortunate accident made the difference of one hole. A.K., 80, a magnificent score. F.G.T., in: 43 5 4 4 4 5 44 =37.” Here is another comment, “R.T.B. very fair. Self good at first, but got too many up, and then got careless, with the usual result.” He lost that match by a hole. Another time, when he was playing the best of two balls, he wrote: “Played badly. The two balls also bad.” That match was fittingly halved. In this way we can follow the happy Freddie all the way through the spring and summer to the end of the year on all the best links that are to be found, and these judgments of his will serve as models to other men who in this small matter would copy the methods of the perfect golfer.

There is this entry in the match-book alongside the date 31stJuly 1888, concerning a match with Mr.Norman Playfair: “Driving very poor. Put a ball through a man’s hat and had to pay five shillings.” Young Freddie, then only eighteen years of age, went to old Tom Morris to complain of his ill-luck in the matter, but Tom answered him wisely, “Ah, Master Freddie, ye may be vera thankful that it’s only a hat, and no’ an oak coffin ye hae to pay for.” Even now, when the sad happenings of the South African War, which at the time so wrung our heart-strings with misery, have been somewhat mellowed by time, the great consoler, it is impossible to glide into this channel of reminiscence without feeling that the pleasure of it is touched with melancholy that the body that held that noble soul should be resting among the trees by the banks of the Riet River.

VI

There is nothing like the winds of March for testing the golfer in every department of his play. Quite timid golfers are sometimes heard to say that they don’t mind rain; but if a man does not mind big winds, regards them both from the sporting and scientific standpoints, and manages to make some respectable golf while they are in charge of the air, he is a worthy player, and he may make his mark some day. It often happens that you can apply test after test to two different golfers, and they will both answer equally to them; but the wind test will separate them at once. The man who can play the real game in a high wind, and use it to his advantage at every opportunity, knows golf as others do not. He is a finished player, and he rather likes the days of March for the rich sport that they afford—the real big game of the links. The other man, when he hears the wind playing like a German band round the side of the house as he tries to get himself off to sleep at night, thinks to himself that he will have to give up the idea of golf in the morning. He should not. Even if he never learns the scientific treatment of wind in golf, he would find his game improved generally and made more powerful by playing it at times like these under severe difficulties, and it is worth playing in a wind if only to taste the sweet joys of golfing in a calm afterwards, just as there is one point of satisfaction in getting wet through on the links because the change afterwards is so delicious.

You always find that a golfer is very much the better for a short season on a very windy course. When he goes back to his home course, very likely inland and protected, driving seems such a simple, easy thing, and he lets out at his tee shots with a freedom and a certainty which make for a greater boldness and strength in his game. North Berwick is one of the windiest courses. You do get wind there in the spring months, and there are hundreds of golfers who testify to the good that a short stay there has done to their game. They have simply got to learn to golf in all kinds of winds. It is like throwing a non-swimmer into seven feet of water with only a thin piece of rope round his middle. He very soon invents a way of making greater security and comfort for himself. Stay at North Berwick long enough, and it may affect your style for life. Mr.Robert Maxwell has a peculiar punching, but withal very powerful style, which is attributed to his upbringing at North Berwick. A man disposed to probe very deep down for causes and effects might arrive at the conclusion that the reason why, speaking very generally, there are better players and better courses, and more of each on the east coast of Scotland than on the west, is because it happens that the links there are more exposed, and there are more windy days upon them than on those on the other side of the country. Not that there are not big winds very frequently to be dealt with in the neighbourhood of Troon and Prestwick, which surely have their full share, and it was at a championship at Prestwick that old Willie Park delivered himself of his famous remark, “Guid God! When I get ma club up I canna get it doon again!” so strongly was the wind blowing on that occasion.

VII

In the spring the professionals come tumbling on to the stage of golf once more with their happy welcome cry, “Here we are again.” Sometimes in the middle of the summer season people are apt to say that we get at least enough of these professional competitions, and that it would be agreeable if we had a little more time to think of our own golf in all its varied charm, instead of our attention being invited day by day to the many permutations and combinations of “the quartette” in exhibition matches, and the aspirations of such as Jones among those next to them. But what a dull season it would be if Vardon and Braid were not up against Taylor and Herd somewhere or other—it does not matter where—just as in the olden time, or Herd and Braid did not show once again at the little course of Slocum-on-Mudbury that there was something wrong with their running in that never-to-be-forgotten foursome when four hundred sovereigns were at stake. And then when Rowland Jones is included in one of these foursome combinations, we say, quite pleased, “Ha, Jones is coming on! Jones is going to assert himself!” One day Jack White is in again—that happy-hearted Jack, who came by a great championship in 1904 at Sandwich, where records were falling in every round—and then we say to ourselves very good-naturedly, “I hope Jack will get on to his drive again in one of these matches!” Or the fourth man may be Tom Vardon, and that is very interesting, because Tom is a great big sportsman who is stuffed tight with the effervescing joy of life. If it is Andrew Kirkaldy, as it is occasionally, we rub our hands and observe, “Grand matchplayer is Sam! Now we shall see how a foursome should be played! Good as the best is Sam!”

The fact of the matter is, that these professional matches and competitions are now a fast and integral part of our golfing system. We may think that we could do without them, and in the summer-time we rail constantly against them, and say that they never would be missed. But how we should miss them! Golfing life would not be the same if there were not occasions to make such almost daily observations as those just quoted. The season would be without salt, and our little amateur combats would seem to be lacking in an unknown stimulus that was always there before.

Then what a void in golfing life would there be if there were not constant occasion to express admiration for the supremacy and the prowess of the triumvirate—Harry Vardon, Braid, and Taylor. When we are too frequently told of the achievement and the skill of the heroes of the olden time, it is well to think of what the triumvirate has done and still can do. Perhaps not many golfers, even among those who pay faithful attention to such matters, have a proper sense of the amazing record of these three men. I had occasion to analyse it lately, and I believe not in any other sport have the periods of three such champions coincided as they have done in golf during the last few years. It is a strange thing that the fates should have pitchforked Braid, Vardon, and Taylor into the arena at the same time, each man being so much above all outside the three. It is as if Ormonde, Donovan, and Flying Fox had been in the same race for the Derby. In one sense it seems a waste of exceptional talent on one period, to the possible impoverishment of another, but golf spectators and players should appreciate the advantage of the times in which they live, for it is unlikely that three such golfers will ever be to the fore at the same time again after these three have gone their way, and it is as certain as anything that a hundred years from now the golf world will speak reverently of the great triumvirate of the early days of the twentieth century. It will certainly be remembered that after this triumvirate had been established eleven years in each other’s company, they wound up a championship first, second, and third against the biggest field that had ever contested a championship, this being at Muirfield in 1906.

Three times in those eleven years the triumvirate collectively achieved the highest possible distinction in this way, the first being in 1900, which was Taylor’s year, the second in 1901, when Braid won, and the third in 1906, when Braid was again successful. Taylor was the first of the three to show activity, and he won the championship in 1894 and 1895. Not until 1896 was the triumvirate definitely constituted, as it were, by the whole three, Vardon, Taylor, and Braid appearing in the championship at the same time. In that year Vardon finished first, Taylor second, and Braid sixth. In the following year Braid, in the second place in the lists, was the foremost man of the three. Then there was a remarkable run, for the triumvirate found the winner in seven of the next nine years. Vardon scored twice running to begin with; then Taylor and Braid; in 1902 Vardon and Braid tied for second place; the next year Vardon was first again; Taylor and Braid tied for second position in 1904, and this was followed by two championships for Braid. Only three times in eleven years did the triumvirate let the championship go out of their small circle, and it may be mentioned that the three men who beat them on these respective occasions were Mr.Hilton in 1897, Herd in 1902, and Jack White in 1904.

Adding up the records of positions and scores of all golfers who took part in these championship competitions when the triumvirate did, and making, so to speak, one long championship of it, the triumvirate lead the way, and the rest—the very best of them—are absolutely tailed off. The scores registered in the championships, added up, afford the following result: Harry Vardon, 3426; James Braid, 3446; J.H. Taylor, 3454. Herd fittingly comes fourth with 3527, and then there is an enormous gap between him and the fifth man. Taylor would, of course, be in a different position if we counted in the two early championships that he won, and let it be said for Taylor that, including this year of 1907, he has been second for the championship four times in succession and five in all—a magnificent record such as stamps him as the most brilliantly consistent champion of all time. But it is a heartbreaking record for Taylor all the same, and this great and popular player has all golfers’ sympathy.

Golfers are not like the brooks of poets; they cannot go on for ever. We shall look to see the great men of to-day playing fine golf in twenty years from now, and upon occasion they will play such rounds as will make us say, “That was just as in the olden time!” But their average of merit must diminish, and probably all the premier three, or at least two of them, have passed the high-water mark of their ability and their tide of supremacy is receding. Who, then, is to succeed them? For years past we have been looking for likely and worthy successors. There are many fine golfers on the links, and occasionally great things are prophesied of some of them; but disappointment almost invariably follows. The times do not seem to be breeding any more Vardons, Taylors, or Braids. A triumvirate of the future is not yet in the making. Our grandparents and other good people constantly tell us that there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, and it might seem a foolish thing to suggest that we shall never again have such a band of supreme artists at the game as those whose works we enjoy witnessing in these days. But are not the chances heavily against there being again in our time simultaneously three more men of such outstanding ability as these three, each one of whom would be the sole man of his generation if it were not for the other two? Cricket did not produce three Graces at the same time; billiards had only one Roberts. You could not imagine three Graces and three Roberts. But we have had them in golf in late years.

One is inclined to think that the fact is that the men who are great to-day were trained in a severer and more heroic school than their successors will be, and they had each a spark of genius which the conditions of the time fanned into the full flame of glory. We cannot expect three more of them to come along at the same time; but we might expect and do want one more, someone who shall be an acknowledged chief of the game, someone whom we shall be glad to see win the championship, as we cannot be so glad when it is won by a golfer than whom there is no one more unlikely ever to win it again. I am no believer in these things going in a round of comparative mediocrity. What seems to be the matter with most modern aspirants is that they have not that touch of genius which is so evidently possessed by the men who have been making golfing history during the past decade. They may drive well, play their irons well, putt well, and they may do many grand holes and accomplish numerous brilliant rounds, breaking many records. At times they may beat the champions and past champions. But they are not the same golfers. Watch them play a round and you can see the difference. They have not the same genius. They are merely ordinary human golfers, though good ones at that; they are palpably suffering too much from mere human weakness. You see them trying hard, trying so very hard. The triumvirate do not seem to try. It is just there. There is one of them who tries less than any golfer who has ever been born, and he does more when trying less than those others trying hard. Yes, it is just there—the genius for the game.

VIII

We may set it down with some conviction that William Shakespeare was a born golfer. It does not matter that golf was as rare in the glorious days in which he lived as are eagles in twentieth-century Britain. We do not say that he played golf, had seen it played, or had ever heard of it. So far as we are aware, there is no evidence to support any such propositions. Yet he was a born golfer, and if the game had come his way he would have played it, and one doubts not that he would also have excelled in it; so that it is well that it was after his time, or England would not have been proud in the possession of such work of his as is the envy of all other nations. For, of all the classic writers whose work we read, there is none who gives such evidence in almost every line of it that he was possessed of a perfectly ideal golfing temperament, of a philosophy that seems constantly to have a subtle and most perfect application to the life of the links. Through and through it is the real golfer’s philosophy, that which is the best suited to the intensity of the game, to its deep humanity, and that which serves for the complete appreciation and full joy of the game. You may read all the other poets, from Homer and Virgil to Byron and Tennyson, without ever a thought of the links obtruding upon your study; but it is no evidence of a vagrant mind, or one that is indifferent to the sweetest music of words, that not three consecutive minutes can hardly ever be spent in reaching Shakespearian lines without the fancy being touched by the perfection of the philosophy and sentiment when applied to the peculiar pleasures and pains of the golfer.

Only one other classic writer with whom we are familiar can give such solace to the troubled player, such wise counsel to him who errs or is in doubt, such chastening admonitions to those who have offended against the spirit of the game and whose consciences are disturbed. That is Marcus Aurelius, and we pass on the volume of his rules of life to all those players who from time to time seek their homes at night weary and depressed after a day on the links, when all has been for the worst and despair broods darkly over the soul. After all, the golfer who is indifferent to the ills he sometimes, nay often, suffers, and can in an hour completely forget the tragedies of two rounds, is somewhat too phlegmatic, and there will always be denied to him the higher ecstasies by which the men of finer and more nervous temperament are uplifted. We do not set it against a man that when he has done discredit to his capabilities, he should show many signs of inward turmoil and display much active vexation towards innocent persons and things on seeking his home. He may rail against the arrangements of his household, and he may appear peevish to the members of his family, and find new faults in their manners and conduct. If they are the kind, sympathetic people that they so often are, they will bear with him and wait patiently for the passing of the cloud. On the morrow the good game may be back in all its fulness and richness, and then at eventide there will trip lightly homewards a happy and withal a penitent golfer, who will not be slow to confess his fault and to make a full measure of amends. The colour of life will have changed from the dull grey to the red of roses. And how much thinner and poorer would be the days of our golfing life did they not contain such constant change and yield to us such a variety of emotion! But it is the days of sorrow rather than the days of gladness that teach us the great lessons that all worthy golfers should learn, and they should not neglect the cultivation of the philosophic spirit for which the best opportunities are then afforded. So it is likely the stricken player may find a deep and wholesome contemplation in his lonely privacy at the end of the day, by meditating with Marcus Aurelius on the morals of life and events. He will tell you that “you have suffered a thousand inconveniences from not being contented with performing what your capacity was given you to perform,” and so, by such a little hint as this, he will lead you home to the simple truth that your proper game is not your best game, and that much of the misery that obtains in the world of golf is due to the universal habit of too high appraisement of the quality of one’s play.

But it is Shakespeare who teaches us best to be good golfers, and the secret of the perfect application of his sentiment and philosophy to the golfer’s life is that his writings are so intensely human, and that of all the diversions of man there is none that so much stirs in him the simple instincts, reduces him to the simplest human elements. A round of golf will sometimes bare faults and qualities in a man that have been hidden from the time of their formation in his early years. It is to the man who constantly undergoes this fierce analysis that Shakespeare will most appeal. Let the golfer test his text and see the perfection of the result. The quotation selected for the first day of the year for a Shakespearean calendar that was hung up in a golfer’s den was—

Could a golfer take a better motto?

IX

No class of man looks forward to the spring with keener anticipation than the golfer. Overburdened with his winter’s discontent, he fancies it as a time of sunshine, of dry courses, of sprouting young grass that holds up the ball on the suburban links and gives us the first good brassey lies that we have had for some months, of the frequent retirement of the energetic worm, of the quickening of the greens, of the leafing of the trees and the hedgerows, and the brightening of the face of Nature. The golfer is generally a strongly human man, who is not careless of natural beauties as are too many in these increasingly prosaic and strenuous days. Perhaps he likes the coming of the springtime best of all, because he is then enabled to play his game in the best degree of comfort. He is less hampered with heavy clothing, and his hands and wrists keep warm without any cumbersome artificial assistance. And then also he is persuaded, and he is evidently right, that the balls fly very much better in the spring sunshine than they ever did through the heavy and often murky atmosphere of the winter days. Even the golf ball welcomes the coming of spring, and given that it is properly struck it gets a better and longer flight through the air when it is dry and light, and it runs better on the dry turf when it comes down, so that the player finds himself being given encouragement that helps him wonderfully on to his game. And so the man who usually goes by the name of the Average Golfer believes all through every autumn and winter that he comes on to his game best of all in the spring, and that that is the only time of the year when he really does play his best, his real game. The only time when he does not believe that he plays his best game in the spring is in the spring.

The fact is that the conditions of springtime are rather made up of a set of contradictions of a very aggravating character, and they often play the devil with the game of this Average Golfer, the system of which is not too firmly consolidated. This person, one takes it, is a man of medium young to middle age, a great enthusiast, of good means, one more or less constantly engaged in business, having a fair number of social obligations to attend to in evenings, and a golfing handicap of somewhere between six and twelve. This man is possibly afflicted with a troublesome liver, and this organ has a peculiar and most aggravating way of asserting itself in the springtime as it has at no other season. Then it is up to all kinds of tricks, the entire physical system of the man is disarranged and thrown out of gear, and the result is that when all Nature is smiling and the larks are piping as though their little throats would burst with the fulness of their melody, the erstwhile hopeful golfer is in a wretched state of mind, trying new stances for his drive, new ways of gripping, a swing much longer or much shorter than usual, and manoeuvring with his strokes in all other kinds of ways, in the vain hope that he might be permitted to drive at least as well as he did in January, instead of foundering one ball in three and lifting up one of the others high towards the heavens. But there is compensation in the increased hopefulness of spring. The game may be poor, weaker than it was hoped to be. But it will mend; it will surely mend.

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