Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 724. Various

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      While the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers is generally held to be the oldest Scotch Club, so great has been the development of its sister Club at St Andrews, and so great are the attractions of golfing on the famous links of the venerable city, that the 'Royal and Ancient' takes precedence over all, and is indisputably the club of the kingdom. What Newmarket is to racing, or Melton to hunting, St Andrews is to golf. In St Andrews, it is not a mere pastime, but a business and a passion. It is the one recreation of the inhabitants from the Principal of the College to the youngest urchin; it has even invaded the domain of croquet, and has taken captive the ladies, who now take so keen an interest in the game, that on more links than those of St Andrews their green is a charming feature of the place. In short, in St Andrews 'no living thing that does not play golf, or talk golf, or think golf, or at least thoroughly knock under to golf, can live.'

      The chief prize of the 'Royal and Ancient' – the gold challenge medal played for every autumn, presented in 1837 by King William IV. – is termed the 'Blue Ribbon of Golf.' To win it is the dream of every member of the Club. Other clubs, such as North Berwick, Musselburgh, Montrose, Perth, Prestwick, Burgess, &c. have each its own time-honoured challenge trophy, that of the Royal Musselburgh being laden with more than a century of medals commemorating each winner. That English clubs too are following fast the fashion set by their older brethren north of the Tweed, is attested by the prizes now competed for at Westward Ho! in Devonshire, Hoylake in Cheshire, and at Wimbledon, &c.; though it is but fair to state that Blackheath claims with good reason to be father of all English golf-clubs, and has for long been celebrated for the keenness of its players and the prizes offered for competition. So much for the history of the game; let us now glance at its literature. In the interesting collection of prose papers Mr Clark has gathered from various quarters, we can study the peculiar features of the game and the effect it has, for the time, on the tempers of its votaries. As we have seen at St Andrews, the ardent golfer has little time for thought or conversation unconnected with the game. For the time being the be-all and end-all of his life lies within the pot-hook-shaped course he has to traverse; and not a little of his happiness or his misery for the day depends on the nature of the match he succeeds in getting. Though the game is as a rule an exceedingly social one, and admits of quiet chat and occasional good-natured banter, the true golfer at work is essentially a man of silence; chattering during the crises of the game is as abhorrent to him as conversation during whist; one thing only is as obnoxious as the human voice to him then – that is, any movement of the human body near him. 'Stand still while I'm putting,' and 'Don't speak on the stroke,' are two postulates he would fain enforce. This over-sensitiveness to external influences may explain the seeming ungallantry of the 'Colonel' in H. J. M.'s amusing account of The Golfer at Home, which appeared in the Cornhill Magazine a few years ago. After a charming little picture of the 'Colonel' resenting, though he does not openly object to Browne being accompanied over the course by 'his women,' as he ungallantly terms Mrs Browne and her sister, he says to his partner: 'The Links is not the place for women; they talk incessantly, they never stand still, and if they do, the wind won't allow their dresses to stand still.' However, as they settle down to their game, the 'Colonel's' good temper returns under the healthy influence of an invigorating 'round,' and gives H. J. M. an opportunity of pointing out how all ill-humours of body and mind give way before the equable and bracing exercise of a round or two of the Links of St Rule. That the reader may see the amount of walking exercise taken in a round of St Andrews Links, it may be interesting to note that the exact distance, as the crow flies, is three miles eleven hundred and fifty-four yards; so that the golfer who takes his daily three rounds walks at least eleven miles. It is no wonder, then, that in addition to its own attractions, golf is esteemed as a capital preparation for the moors or the stubbles, hardening as it does the muscles both of arms and legs. What hunting does for the cavalry soldier as a training for more important bursts in the battle-field, the like does golf for the infantry soldier in bracing him to encounter forced marching with ease. The Links have formed the training-ground of many a brilliant officer. Space will not allow us to dwell on the genial gossip about St Andrews and St Andrews players – amateur and professional – that we find in Mr Clark's book, further than to mention three names. First, that of the great champion of the professionals, Allan Robertson, who was 'never beaten in a match;' of the brilliant but short-lived career of poor 'young Tom Morris,' the champion player of his day – son of a worthy sire who still survives; of Mr Sutherland, an old gentleman who made golf the chief business of his life, whose interest in his fellow-men, not as men but as golfers, is well shewn in this anecdote. His antagonist was about to strike off for the finishing hole at St Andrews, when a boy appeared on the bridge over the burn. Old Sutherland shouted out: 'Stop, stop! Don't play upon him; he's a fine young golfer!'

      It is in verse, however, that the votary of golf finds the field congenial to his subject.

      In 1842 appeared a clever collection of poems, entitled Golfiana, by George Fullerton Carnegie of Pittarrow, which delighted the golfers of that day by the humorous way in which it hit off the playing characteristics of the men he introduced into it. He begins by throwing down the gauntlet to those students of Scottish history who sigh over the musty memories and deplore the decayed glories of the city of their patron saint:

      St Andrews! they say that thy glories are gone,

      That thy streets are deserted, thy castles o'er-thrown:

      If thy glories be gone, they are only, methinks,

      As it were by enchantment transferred to thy Links.

      Though thy streets be not now, as of yore, full of prelates,

      Of abbots and monks, and of hot-headed zealots,

      Let none judge us rashly, or blame us as scoffers,

      When we say that instead there are Links full of golfers,

      With more of good heart and good feeling among them

      Than the abbots, the monks, and the zealots who sung them!

      We have many capital songs in honour of the game; amongst others a parody of Lord Houghton's well-known song, Strangers yet, from which it will be seen that something more is necessary to make a good golfer than a set of clubs and an anxious 'cady' to carry them:

DUFFERS YET. – BY TWO 'LONG SPOONS.'

      After years of play together,

      After fair and stormy weather,

      After rounds of every green

      From Westward Ho! to Aberdeen;

      Why did e'er we buy a set

      If we must be duffers yet!

      Duffers yet! Duffers yet!

      After singles, foursomes – all,

      Fractured club and cloven ball;

      After grief in sand and whin,

      Foozled drives and 'putts' not in —

      Ev'n our cadies scarce regret

      When we part as duffers yet,

      Duffers yet! Duffers yet!

      After days of frugal fare,

      Still we spend our force in air;

      After nips to give us nerve,

      Not the less our drivers swerve;

      Friends may back and foes may bet,

      And ourselves be duffers yet,

      Duffers yet! Duffers yet!

      Must it ever then be thus?

      Failure most mysterious!

      Shall we never fairly stand

      Eye on ball as club in hand?

      Are the bounds eternal set

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