It is in match playing far more than in scoring that the pleasure of golf is experienced. "I managed him at the corner o' the dyke," has more "birr" in it than "I nearly broke my record, but for a confounded foozle," when a man comes into the Club after a match. And what a nuisance it is, in playing a round by holes with an inveterate scorer, to see him take out his pencil and paper at the end of each hole and put down thereon the marks of each. It is a real nuisance for one of us old golfers, at any rate. When we find that the game of golf is so attractive to men up in years who learned it when young, we must surely conclude that it is because of the skill rather than the force required in playing it. I know I am here on dangerous ground. I have always advocated skill versus force in the game of golf. Not that in a brilliant young player physical power is not needed; but even with him he must play with his full strength under control for continued success in driving. "Gowf needs a heid," is an old adage of "The Skipper"-wellknown caddy-of St. Andrews. Allan Robertson was a little man, playing with toy clubs and twenty-six balls, yet no one could beat him. His great match of twenty rounds against Willie Dunn, in 1843, proved that skill mastered strength in the long run. For Dunn was a tall, powerful man, and one of the neatest drivers I ever saw handle a club. But Allan used his head, and by his continued consummate skill in every stroke managed to overcome his brilliant rival. We have only to think of Andrew Strath, Mr. P. C. Anderson, and Dr. Allan (all champions) to recognize their comparative physical weakness with others of strong calibre. A tremendous Blackwell drive with a high tee and broad-faced club may not have been often witnessed in the olden times, though Messieux and Patullo, at St. Andrews, drove as far over St. An Mr. I am very much pleased to find that Mr. Hutchinson, in his last excellent work on "Golf and Golfers," yields more than does Mr. Hilton to what I have been saying, for he remarks: "Vardon's style in driving is very notable; it is a triumph of mind over matter, of skill and science over the vis inertia of guttapercha, that some men try to overcome by brute force." Hilton accuses many of the older school of players for maintaining that physical force is of little avail in golf. Let him ask the veteran player, Mr. William Doleman, whose name I have just been reading in the list of successful champions in the Perth Tournament of 1866, and who was trying his hand this week at the Amateur Championship at Prestwick. Mr. Doleman has taken part in more championships and tournaments than any one else, and knows the points of the game as well as any living golfer. Let Mr. Hilton ask Mr. Doleman about my own driving in the "sixties," and he will very likely be astonished at the answer when comparing the force player of the present day with the skill player of old. And it is this matter of skill that lends the fine attractiveness to the game when one passes fifty years of age. The elasticity of youth is gone; the worries of life have fixed an indelible mark on the forehead; yet the game has still its old keenness when equally matched skill players are struggling for the friendly victory. The laurel of a championship may be put on another's brow; no matter is this to the enthusiastic player of the Old School. He has his match against his one opponent, and he banishes care for the time being. The turf still springs under his foot, not now so elastic; eagerly-almost as of old-be hurries after his ball, and his friends think him young once more. The game is giving him a new lease of life. The attractions of golf are even exciting to one of the Old School as he looks back through the twilight of autumnal years at his young golf-world. When the clubs have been laid aside, because the hand has lost its cunning, or too great a distance from a good golf course prevents one from having regular practice, yet the eye follows with pleasure the accounts of the matches in the newspapers, and the pen occasionally comes to one's aid instead of the favorite weapon of old. "Once a golfer, always a golfer," is a true adage. The praise of the game the initiated will never cease to celebrate-it is all-absorbing. The learned can recreate their bodies and unbend their minds with rare stamina. stranger may think it ludicrous to see a learned professor or a correct clergyman become animated over the striking of a guttapercha ball with a slim wooden club. But this is just like the effect of stopping your ears to exclude the music in a gay ballroom. Hear the thrill of the waltz tune, and you rush in spirit among the dancers; feel the enthusiasm of the golfer, and the clubs The Gentleman's Magazine. A become magic wands and the balls jewels. The whole frame is alive with the pastime. Over the undulating course even the short-breathed veteran will walk, so absorbed is he in the game. He has the terrors of bunkers to try his nerves, and the charms of nice approaches to cheer him. So keen is his spirit that the golfer considers his life immortal. There is, too, a brotherhood in golf unknown in many other games. That is a joyful attraction. All are here put on the same level. Talent, money, position are all thrown aside when being matched with a brilliant player of any rank. of the game; there is no respect of persons-skill reigns supreme. Many a life attachment has been made on the "green." Golf eclipses all outdoor No games for developing sociality. game has an equal charm for the keen golfer of any grade in the golfing scale. The cynic's sneer cannot dampen the spell-bound devotee to the best of games. And that is one of the glories And still the Royal game maintains its place, And will maintain it through each rising race. J. G. McPherson. VOX MILITANTIS. On the wide veldt, beneath the vaster sky, Cold, calm, and brilliant, from that awful height B. Paul Neuman. I. A GLIMPSE OF ADEN.* Between nine and ten o'clock at night the steamer began to go at half speed. The captain had mounted the bridge where the first officer was on duty; the second officer was near the bow with the crew. The coast of Asia lay before us, but only the keen practised eye of a sailor could make it out. On board nothing could be heard but the powerful and deliberate thumping of the engine and the click of the instrument by which the captain sent his orders down below to the engine-room. The first officer swept the darkness with his spyglass. The speed became slower. A man left the bridge and walked out upon a platform on the starboard side of the ship and dropped the sounding-leȧds. "Twelve," he said, as he drew it up. Again he balanced the lead, which the oscillation of the waves carried toward the bow. When it touched bottom he drew it up again and, by the light of a small lantern, read the indications on the tag. "Ten and a half, ten, nine and a half," chanted that clear, metallic voice -the only one to be heard on the ship -breaking the silence of the night. "Eight, seven and a half." The captain leaned over the rail in the direction of the bow. "Are they both ready?" he asked. "All ready," was the reply. The man with the sound continued: "Seven and a half, seven, six and a half." "Drop anchor," shouted the captain. The two anchors fell into the water almost at the same time, with a great splashing. The noise of the chains slip Translated for The Living Age by Jean Raymond Bidwell. ping through the hawse-holes could be heard. The steamer had dropped anchor in the middle of the Bay of Aden. Nothing could be seen of the coast. The lights that glittered here and there were, undoubtedly, the lanterns on other ships. Aside from these, the darkness was complete-below as well as above. Land was about two miles away, but, owing to the darkness that hung over us like a pall, not even an outline was to be discerned. The sky was covered with clouds; not a star was to be seen. When the rattling of the chains had ceased, and the steamer, with its load of human freight, had settled down to rest, there could be heard faintly monotonous songs with intonations new to us. Mournful, plaintive voices kept time to the measured dip of the oars, and grew more distinct every moment, as they floated over the tranquil water. We began to realize that a strange, almost savage country surrounded us. We imagined processions of horrible idols, borne in flat, wooden boats by gaudilypainted negroes, and aquatic processions presided over by priests adorned with human trophies. Presently, above the murmur of voices and the dip of oars, was heard a loud, puffing noise, that seemed to be rapidly approaching us, and in a few moments a little steam launch reached the ship's side. The captain leaned over the rail of the bridge, on the starboard side, and spoke, in English, to some one in the launch. The conversation lasted only a few moments. The little steamer, again churning the tranquil water of the bay into foam with her paddle, headed for the shore, and in a few moments disappeared from sight. In the meantime the rowers had surrounded us. We could see them by the light cast by our lanterns. They were little, squatty negroes, with woolly hair. They came in wide, flat boats, made one would judge by the shape-from tree trunks. They threw down their oars and leaped to their feet, rocking back and forth in apparent desperation, violently shaking their hands and feet as if they were disgusted with those members and wished to throw them into the sea. They screamed with hoarse, shrill voices-the only voices in the world to sing the songs we had just heard-and their constant cry was: "Peseto, Musiu, á la mer, á la mer." They were begging us to throw pieces of money into the sea that they might dive for them. In order that we might understand more clearly, they ducked, then, swimming like fish, they returned to their boats. They were soon convinced that, owing to the lateness of the hour, or to the lack of good will on our part, their labor was not likely to prove lucrative, so they seated themselves in the bottom of their canoes, turned their prows towards land, and, with the same monotonous and mournful chant, keeping time to the dipping of the oars, they slid over the smooth surface of the sea. II. The following morning, as the crew were not unloading cargo, I did not awake until the breakfast bell rang. We were in the middle of the bay, but nearer the extreme east, where the European population is to be found. On both sides were to be seen the mountains that formed the bay. They were bare and angular, without tree or shrub to hide their nakedness, and the beach was so low down that if one did not look carefully he would not believe there was any land there. The sun was rising above the mountains where Aden nestled. His rose-colored rays tinged the summits of the other hills, and they looked pink, even reddish, not green or blue, like other mountains. They were far away from us, and yet one would say we were going to touch them. The sky was cloudless, and the atmosphere of a transparency not to be found in any other spot on earth, even upon the clearest day. Beneath the implacable light that sharpened the outlines and brought into relief the smallest detail, the rugged mountains appeared in all their barrenness. They towered in steep cliffs from the very borders of the sea, soaring to yet loftier heights, then descending abruptly. They did not have the gentle curves of our mountains, nor their gradual descent. They were like the cardboard mountains in a theatre, with high peaks and impossible projections that no one could possibly climb. The very novelty of the landscape, the idea that this portion of land was something entirely unique, produced a great longing to see it nearer. Down by the side of the ship, close to the ladder which had just been lowered for the purser, was a little boat somewhat better than those we had seen the night before, and in it were four negroes who invited me to go ashore. Contrary to the usual custom, the placard announcing the hour for our departure had not been put up, but as the supercargo was going ashore, and as we couldn't very well start without him, I might allow myself the pleasure of stepping foot on land. Two of my fellow passengers came on deck at that moment and decided to accompany me. We stepped into the little boat, the negroes laughed and showed their white teeth, and immediately began to row and to chant their songs of the evening before. They rowed well, as might have been expected from their slender, agile figures. Their oars kept time to the music with mathematical precision. I turned my head to look at the steamer. How big she seemed, towering above the boats that came and went and the immense black barges that lay alongside the ship, from which little negroes were carrying sacks of charcoal no blacker than themselves. Boats and launches were arriving from shore, with traders on board, and their ceaseless movements around the great iron hulk, so full of repose, gave it a greater appearance of size and strength. The glittering sun's rays brought out myriads of sparks from the polished surface of the water. The negroes kept on rowing and singing, with monkeylike gestures. On our way to the shore we met the divers of the evening before, who were returning in their canoes. They rowed with short, broad paddles. They were still singing, but when they saw us they stopped and greeted us with the now familiar cry: "Peseto, Musiu, á la mer, á la mer." They dropped their paddles and flung themselves headfirst into the sea. In two strokes they regained the paddle that had floated away, climbed into their canoes, and continued their way. Some of these boys wore pantaloons, others ragged blouses, but the greater number had on merely the loin cloth. No one, however, was without a bangle of bronze, stone or crystal, or, at least, a bit of red rag, twisted like a bracelet, on the right wrist. As we were nearing land, we could distinguish the zig-zag windings of a mountain road so frightfully steep that only goats would be able to climb it. This road runs up the same mountain upon which Aden lies, but on an opposite slope. There the forts of the English may be seen overlooking the high seas. Their barracks form a gigantic ladder, running from the beach half way up the cliff. The buildings are all white with flat roofs, and look upon the sea with a thousand eyes through their little square windows. It seems as if they were searching for another island to occupy. III. Our boat stopped at a little stone pier that ran out some metres into the water. At one end stood an immense Indian, stiff and tall, in the uniform of an English policeman. He looked like a guide-post placed there by John Bull to certify that this land was his also. He asked us what we had paid, and as it seemed to be the proper amount he told the boatmen to go on. Opposite the wharf where we disembarked, about fifty paces away, rose the mountain-free, erect, inaccessible. On our right we saw an abandoned fortress; its old walls, some twenty feet in height, crowned by turrets. Here and there were to be seen a few rusty cannon. On our left a fairly-wide road ran, like a cornice, between the beach and the mountain. Down this road, at full speed, came two or three little carriages, driven by natives who were standing on the seats. They waved their whips at us. We took the first carriage and drove back over the same road. After a few hundred feet the road grows wider. In a hollow made by the hills is a wide esplanade, where lies the crescent-shaped European portion of the town of Aden. Stores, offices and the consulates make the first line, while behind them follow row after row of buildings until the houses seem to be climbing the mountain-side. This first street is a very long one. Between the curve made by it and the beach is a very long plaza, which has the bay for a foreground and the hilltops, which enclose it on the west, for a background. The houses are low, two-story, with roof-gardens, like those of Andalusia. The greater number |