From Our Own Correspondent, Edinburgh, May 30.
As usual the General Assemblies held their annual golf match, the members of our Presbyterian Kirk Parliament showing quite an "unholy joy" in the pleasures of the great game. Is there not famous story told at St. Andrews of a Minister o the West Kirk, boasting of his feats "far and sure," and hig caddie, when asked who he was, was constrained to answer.—''He says he's a minister in Edinburry, but ah says he's a lecar!" Clerical golitrs—and others~refer to St. Andrews as "the Mecca' and in their tribulation do no hesitate to inyoke the saint whose name honoured by churchman and golfer alike.—Sweet Saint, whoee spirit haunts the course And broods o'er every hole, And lends the drive vital force, And calms the putter's soul.
Thou gayest me to my dying hour, '4 golfer's fame divine, I boast thy gift a driver's power, If I can putt—'tis thine.
Poets, however, are privileged persons, and we must regard that last line, despite its attractiveness, as heresy of the rankest growth. For if there is one department of the game where every rule breaks down, and even the theory off inspiration fails, it is the putting groom "At such a moment," says the genial Sir Walter '"'the player must not even allow himself the consolations of No man would be a funker, Of whin, or burn, ora bunker, There were no need for mashies, The turf would never be torn, Had cigarettes no ashes, And reges never a thorn,
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.