GOLF.

While pheasant-shooters are enjoying the first day of the season, the

votaries of a sport not less noble, though less noisy, are holding the

great festival of their year. The autumn meeting of the Royal and

Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews is in full swing, and the words will

suggest pleasant memories to many a golfer. Golf is not one of the more

brilliant and famous pastimes of the day, though it yields to none in

antiquity and in unassuming merit. The names of the winners of the gold

medal and of the silver cross are not telegraphed all over the world as

widely as Mr. Tennyson's hero wished the news that Maud had accepted him

to be. The red man may possibly "dance beneath his red cedar tree" at

the tidings of the event of one of our great horse-races, or great

university matches. At all events, even if the red man preserves his

usual stoicism of demeanour, his neighbours, the pale-faces, like to know

all about the result of many English sports the moment they are decided.

Golf, as we have said, excites less general enthusiasm; but in people who

love it at all, the love is burning, consuming; they will talk golf-shop

in season and out of season. Few persons, perhaps, will call golf the

very first and queen of games. Cricket exercises more faculties of body,

and even of mind, for does not the artful bowler "bowl with his head?"

Football demands an extraordinary personal courage, and implies the

existence of a fierce delight in battle with one's peers. Tennis, with

all its merits, is a game for the few, so rare are tennis-courts and so

expensive the pastime. But cricketers, football-players, tennis-players,

would all give golf the second place after their favourite exercise; and

just as Themistocles was held to be the best Greek general, because each

of his fellows placed him second, so golf may assert a right to be

thought the first of games. One great advantage it certainly has--it is

a game for "men" of all ages, from eight, or even younger, to eighty. The

links of St. Andrews are probably cleared just now of the little lads and

the veterans, they make room for the heroes, the medalists, the great

players--Mr. Mackay, Mr. Lamb, Mr. Leslie Balfour, and the rest. But at

ordinary times there are always dozens of tiny boys in knickerbockers and

scarlet stockings, who "drive out" the first hole in some twenty strokes

of their little clubs, and who pass much of their time in fishing for

their lost balls in the muddy burn. As for the veterans "on the

threshold of old age," it is pleasant to watch their boyish eagerness,

the swaying of their bodies as they watch the short flight of their

longest hits; their delight when they do manage to hit further than the

sand-pit, or "bunker," which is named after the nose of a long-dead

principal of the university; their caution, nay, their almost tedious

delay in the process of putting, that is, of hitting the ball over the

"green" into the neighbouring hole. They can still do their round, or

their two rounds, five or ten miles' walking a day, and who can speak

otherwise than well of a game which is not too strenuous for healthy age

or tender childhood, and yet allows an athlete of twenty-three to put out

all his strength?

Golf is a thoroughly national game; it is as Scotch as haggis, cockie-

leekie, high cheekbones, or rowanberry jam. A spurious imitation, or an

arrested development of the sport, exists in the south of France, where a

ball is knocked along the roads to a fixed goal. But this is naturally

very poor fun compared to the genuine game as played on the short turf

beside the grey northern sea on the coast of Fife. Golf has been

introduced of late years into England, and is played at Westward Ho, at

Wimbledon, at Blackheath (the oldest club), at Liverpool, over Cowley

Marsh, near Oxford, and in many other places. It is, therefore, no

longer necessary to say that golf is not a highly developed and

scientific sort of hockey, or bandy-ball. Still, there be some to whom

the processes of the sport are a mystery, and who would be at a loss to

discriminate a niblick from a bunker-iron. The thoroughly equipped golf-

player needs an immense variety of weapons, or implements, which are

carried for him by his caddie--a youth or old man, who is, as it were,

his esquire, who sympathizes with him in defeat, rejoices in his success,

and aids him with such advice as his superior knowledge of the ground

suggests. The class of human beings known as caddies are the offspring

of golf, and have peculiar traits which distinguish them from the

professional cricketer, the waterman, the keeper, the gillie, and all

other professionals. It is not very easy to account for their little

peculiarities. One thing is certain--that when golf was introduced by

Scotchmen into France, and found a home at Pau, in the shadow of the

Pyrenees, the French caddie sprang, so to speak, from the ground, the

perfect likeness of his Scottish brother. He was just as sly, just as

importunate in his demands to be employed, just as fond of "putting at

short holes," more profane, and every bit as contemptuous of all non-golf-

playing humanity as the boyish Scotch caddie, in whom contempt has

reversed the usual process, and bred familiarity with all beginners.

The professional cricketer can instruct an unskilled amateur, can take

his ill-guarded wicket, and make him "give chances" all over the field,

without bursting into yells of unseemly laughter. But the little caddie

cannot restrain his joy when the tyro at golf, after missing his ball

some six times, ultimately dashes off the head of his club against the

ground. Nor is he less exuberant when his patron's ball is deep in a

"bunker," or sand-pit, where the wretch stands digging at it with an

iron, hot, helpless, and wrathful. And yet golf is a sport not learned

in a day, and caddies might be more considerate. The object of the game

is to strike a small gutta-percha ball into a hole about five inches

wide, distant from the striker about three hundred yards, and separated

from him by rough grass and smooth sand-pits, furze bushes, and perhaps a

road or a brook. He who, of two players, gets his ball into the hole in

the smallest number of strokes is the winner of that hole, and the party

then play towards the next hole. All sorts of skill are needed--strength

and adroitness, and a certain supple "swing" of the body, are wanted to

send the ball "sure and far" in the "driving" part of the game. Nothing

is so pleasant as a clean "drive." The sensation is like that of hitting

a ball to square-leg, fair and full, at cricket. Then the golfer must

have the knack to lift his ball out of deep sand with the "iron," and to

strike it deftly "a half-shot" up to the hole with the "cleek;" and,

lastly, coolness and a good eye when he "putts" or hits his ball actually

up to the very hole.

Any degree of skill in these varied feats makes golf a delightful game,

if the opponents are well matched. Nor are the charms of scenery wanting

at St. Andrews, the headquarters of the sport. There is no more

picturesque town in Scotland than the little university city. From the

plain of the estuary of the river Eden, across the long leagues of marsh

land and the stretches of golden sand and brown, the towers of St.

Andrews--for it is a town of many towers--are seen breaking the sky-line.

Built on a windy headland, running out to the grey northern sea, it

reaches the water with an ancient pier of rugged stone. Immediately

above is the site of a chapel of immemorial age, and above that again are

the ruins of the cathedral--gaunt spires with broken tracery, standing

where once the burnished roof of copper flashed far across the deep. The

high street winds from the cathedral precinct past an old house of Queen

Mary Stuart, past ruined chapels of St. Leonard's, and the university

chapel with its lovely spire, down to the shores of the bay; and along

the bay run the famous "links," where the royal and ancient game has its

cradle and home. Other links, as Prestwick, or North Berwick, may vie

with those of St. Andrews in extent, or in the smoothness of the putting

greens, or in the number and hardness of the "hazards," or difficult

places; but none offer so wide and varied an extent of scenery, from the

melancholy stretch of the parallel sands to the hills in the west, the

golden glitter of the beach, beneath the faint aerial blue of the still

more distant hills across the firth, while behind is the city set on its

cliffs, and proud with its crown of spires. The reflected sunset lingers

on the walls and crags and towers, that shine imaged in the wet sands,

the after-glow hangs over the eastern sky, and these have their charm;

but their charm yields to that of golf. It is a sign that a man has lost

heart and hope when he dilates on the beauty of the scenery, and

abstracts his attention from what alone would interest him were he

winning--the "lie" of his ball. Who can stop to think of the beauties of

nature, when he and his antagonist are equal, and there are only two more

holes left to play in the match for the medal? It is a serious moment;

not one of the little crowd of observers, the gallery that accompany the

players, dares to speak, or even cough. The caddie who sneezes is lost,

for he will be accused of distracting his master's attention. The ladies

begin to appear in the background, ready to greet the players, and to

tell the truth, are not very welcome to the nervous golfer. Everything

turns on half an inch of leather in a "drive," or a stiff blade of grass

in a putt, and the interest is wound up to a really breathless pitch.

Happy he is who does not in his excitement "top" his ball into the

neighbouring brook, or "heel" it and send it devious down to the depths

of ocean. Happy is he who can "hole out the last hole in four" beneath

the eyes of the ladies. Striding victorious into the hospitable club,

where beer awaits him, he need not envy the pheasant-slayer who has slain

his hundreds.