I
Probably it is true that golf carries its votaries farther in enthusiasm
than does any other game or sport. It is characteristic of the golfing
enthusiasm that it does but increase as time goes on, and that not in
the case of one man in twenty does it show any diminution, while the
game is such a jealous mistress that it is rarely the convert to golf
maintains any regular association with other sports unless he is of such
complete leisure that it is impossible for golf alone to fill up his
hours. Practically every golfer, therefore, is a keen enthusiast, and
though we dislike to hear the phrase come from the lips of those who are
not of us, we have to confess that there is some justification for the
extremity of this enthusiasm being described as “golf fever”; for indeed
at times it provokes the player to the doing of many things which in the
cold light of reason afterwards would not be regarded as completely
rational. We are all enthusiasts; but who was the greatest enthusiast
who ever was? An impossible question to answer, of course, if for no
other reason than that the limit appears to have been reached by
hundreds; but tradition can always settle matters of this kind in its
own way, and it has determined for us who was the keenest golfer, and
has seen to it, moreover, that his memory shall be safely perpetuated.
Thus we have old Alexander MʻKellar as the patron saint of the man who
likes to get his three and four rounds a day in the summer-time, and is
miserable unless he has a club in his hand in his resting hours.
It is something to have become regarded as the keenest golfer, for it
goes without saying that every other worldly consideration of every
description whatsoever must have been sacrificed to the attainment of
that vast distinction. Such a man must have really earned the title of
“Cock o’ the Green,” which was given to MʻKellar, and with that title
his fame will be handed down through the generations as it is affixed to
an historic print. This picture of the old worthy, who indeed was fairly
“mad” on the game, was first circulated more than a hundred years ago,
and has become one of our most cherished golfing antiquities. His
enthusiasm brimmed over when in the act of play, and “By the la’ Harry,
this shall not go for nothing!” as he used to say involuntarily when
addressing the ball, became something of a catch-phrase in his district.
He did his golf from Edinburgh, and Bruntsfield Links was his playing
ground. How often does one find that they are the keenest golfers who do
not take up the game in their youth? It may be true that generally the
man who does not swing a club as a child has not such a good chance of
becoming a player with pretensions to championship form as have those
who made such early acquaintance with the game; but do we not find that
these men become the fondest and most thorough players, making up in
enthusiasm and real enjoyment what they lack in skill? Thus there is a
grand compensation after all, and let us weep no more for the golf that
we missed in our schooldays; for some of those who played it then are
they who now find their greatest ease of heart for some weeks of the
year at fishing, shooting, or some other sport in which something has to
be killed.
And so the “Cock o’ the Green” did not begin his golf at all until he
was quite a middle-aged man, and all likelihood of his ever becoming a
really finished player had completely vanished. And he was of
comparatively humble means. He had saved a little money, such as went
for some justification for his constant idleness; but his wife found it
necessary to keep a tavern in Edinburgh when they went to live there.
MʻKellar gave no hand in the management of this tavern; he had no time
for anything but golf, and bitter were the upbraidings that he had to
endure from his worthy and industrious dame as a consequence.
Mrs. MʻKellar may indeed be set down as the first that we know anything
about of that long line of sufferers who go by the name of golf-widows.
This lady might have borne her isolation better if it had not been the
fact that she was somewhat mocked for it, and found the name of her lord
a byword in every neighbour’s house and at every street corner for his
over-indulgence in the game of golf, fair “cracked” on it, as everybody
took him to be. She tried to shame him once, but had much the worse of
the experiment. She thought to make him a butt for the laughter of his
companions by taking to the links one day his dinner and his nightcap.
But when she arrived there he was in the throes of a hard-fought match,
and when she offered him the meal he answered her kindly, but with some
touch of impatience, that she might wait if she chose until the game
was completed, when he would attend to her, but that for the time being
he had no leisure for dinner. And the game went on. So she came to
loathe the very name of golf, and was scarcely civil to the tavern
customers who were players and friends of her good man. But one day she
had a sweet revenge upon him. She set out for a journey to Fife, and was
expected to be away for at least a day. No sooner was her back turned
than hospitable MʻKellar went forth to bid his golfing friends to his
house, which, when its lady was in residence, they might in no wise
enter. A fine feast was prepared, and the party was a merry one, when
the door opened, and there stood, with a countenance drawn with
suppressed wrath, Mrs. MʻKellar, who had been obliged to return, through
the ferry being impassable as a consequence of the severe weather that
prevailed.
Every morning the “Cock o’ the Green” hurried through his breakfast, and
away he went to Bruntsfield Links with all the haste possible, never
returning home again until night had fallen. Sometimes, indeed, he did
not come then, if there were any good golfing excuse for not doing so.
Many were the times when he was discovered playing at the short holes by
the dim glimmer of a lamp, and a moonlight night was an almost
irresistible temptation to him. Heat and cold did not diminish his
ardour; and in the winter, when the snow covered the course, he would do
his utmost to persuade an opponent to share a round with him; and if he
failed he would go out alone and wander the whole way round playing his
ball from flag to flag, the greens and holes not being discoverable.
Like all keen golfers he loved the foursome, and preferred to be tested
by it if he could find a partner of any quality whatever. One day he was
in Leith and fell in conversation with some strangers there,
glass-blowers they were, and, as always, the subject turned upon the
game, and from the game in general to the prowess of the “Cock o’ the
Green” in particular. The men of Leith affected to think little of his
play, and challenged him to a match, upon which moment a Bruntsfield
youngster made his appearance. “By gracious, gentlemen!” exclaimed
MʻKellar, “here is a boy, and we will play you for a guinea!” The match
took place, and victory lay with MʻKellar, who was so excited when the
last hole had been played that he ran post haste to the shop of the
clubmaker, screaming, “By gracious, gentlemen, the old man and the boy
have beat them off the green!”
The artist Kay, who made the picture of him, went out on to the links
one day to draw it from the life unbeknown to the hero, and when he came
to know about it afterwards he was sorely disappointed that he had not
been given the opportunity of posing. “What a pity!” he lamented. “By
gracious! If I had but known I would have shown him some of my capers!”
Perhaps it was as well he did not. When he won his match he would
sometimes be so mad with joy that he would dance round the hole for a
minute. Such delight was pure, for though he did wager a little on his
matches he did not risk more than he could well afford to lose, and it
was the game he tried to win and not the little that he bet. On Sundays,
when there was no golf to be played, he fulfilled the duties of
doorkeeper to an Episcopalian church, and held the plate. Douglas
Gourlay, the famous ballmaker, one day put a ball into the plate by way
of joke, guessing what would happen. He was right, MʻKellar’s golfing
cupidity was too much for him. His eyes glistened, and in an instant the
ball was transferred to his pocket. Poor old MʻKellar! Weak enough he
may have been, but he did love his game as absolutely nothing else in
life, which for him ended nearly a century since.