“The course is black with parsons,” was said one fine Monday at the
outset of his game by a man who had been kept waiting for a most
unconscionable time while a minor canon and a plain vicar had been
worrying away in bunkers on opposite sides of the first short hole. In
this observation there was some evident exaggeration, but it is being
borne in upon us every day how more and more popular is this diversion
becoming with the cloth, as indeed it should and might be expected to
be, since golf makes its greatest appeal to those of the most thoughtful
and philosophical temperaments, such as clergymen should possess.
Excellent is this association, and it is a poor and threadbare humour
that is constantly fancying the cleric in such exasperation with his
game that ordinary modes of expression are insufficient for him. Having
heard of the worthy divine who was horribly bunkered and in a heel-mark
at the Redan at North Berwick, to whom the most excellent of caddies,
“big” Crawford observed, “Noo, gin an aith wad relieve ye, dinna mind
me”; and of the other one who was reported as repeating the Athanasian
Creed at the bottom of “Hell”--the bunker of that name on the
St. Andrews course--one would wish to go no farther with such stories.
The celebrated Bishop Potter of New York was playing golf on the course
at Saranac, and he made a mighty attempted drive that topped the ball,
and another one that tore up the turf, and yet a third that almost
missed the ball, and each time he uttered a soothing “Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh!”
But the caddie was himself a golfer of a very stern and human school,
and in his great annoyance he exclaimed, “Man alive! sh-sh-sh-sh won’t
send that ball where you want it to go to!” The Rev. Silvester Horne,
who is one of the keenest of the clerical golfers, and has been known to
captain a side of parsons occasionally, once drew up a system of conduct
to be observed by brother clergymen when playing the game, and a very
excellent system it was, with severe adjurations against the doing of
many things such as are common with the ordinary golfer, and certain
small licences permitted to make the path a trifle less difficult than
it might otherwise be.
There was a worthy rector who was given to golf, and was somewhat
sensitive upon the subject of the large scores that were made by his
foozling. He had a pretty way; he did not count his score himself,
though who knows what subconscious ideas he may or may not have formed
as to its dimensions? But be that as it may, he would say to his caddie
as at last he flopped the ball on to the green at the short hole, “Now,
my boy, how many have I played this time?” The caddie, being official
counter to the rector, would say at once, “Six, sir!” Then the reverend
gentleman would stop suddenly in his march forwards, and would turn upon
this miserable little boy with a severe and awful frown, and would say,
or almost shriek, “Six! six! six! Whatever are you saying, my boy? Have
you been watching the game? Do you really mean six?” The caddie was
utterly cowed. “N--n--no, sir,” he would stammer, “I’m very sorry; I
m--m--mean five!” “Ha! That is better,” his reverence smiled. “Yes, no
doubt it is five; five, certainly. Let it be five. But”--and this very
seriously--“my boy, it is of the greatest importance to count the
strokes correctly at this game, and let this be a warning to you. Take
great care with the counting.” And yet it was six.
But, tell us, why is it that the clergyman, with all his magnificent
opportunities, is so seldom anything like a good player, so often has a
handicap deep down in the teens? You may see him on the links six days a
week, and yet he goes on from year to year no nearer to the degree of
scratch, still driving his short and very wayward ball with that
nervous, fearful stance of his, that slow, hesitating swing. I can
almost tell the clergyman on the tee, however he may be disguised, he is
such a doubter. Yet, with his opportunities, the Church ought to be by
way of finding a candidate for the championship. Can it be that the
philosophical temperament in excess kills keenness and makes a man
content in his own little kingdom of foozling and shortness--
“Contented if he might enjoy
The things that others understand.”
There can be no other explanation. But it is to be set down perhaps to
the clergyman’s credit that he is so often unorthodox in his methods.
On the links he is the broadest-minded man alive, and he is tolerant of
all things. Why, if ever in London one wants to be reminded of just the
way in which the Barry swing is done, one might seek out none other than
the Bishop of London, for if ever a man performs that fall-back,
bent-kneed swipe it is Dr. Ingram, as photographs will prove. If this is
to be, then an archbishop might play no stymies, and how then shall a
curate become a champion?