GOLF has done wonders since it found its way out of Scotland, and, in connexion with its development, nothing has been more remarkable than its progress abroad. When, just over twenty years ago, I left Jersey and came to England to take up the game as a profession, it was beginning to obtain its grip on the affections of the English people. Outside the limits of the United Kingdom it occupied an exceedingly humble position. Even in this country players were not so numerous as one might have wished, and the professional had many opportunities of practising in splendid isolation. Such studying of all the points of the pastime doubtless did him a lot of good (it certainly helped me, for I spent nearly all my spare hours in learning new shots) but, at the time, it was not a particularly lucrative pursuit, and it required a deal of enthusiasm, since it seemed to be a matter of trying to secure a state of perfection in a department of life that interested comparatively few people.

It is a lucky circumstance to have lived through this crowded period which has seen golf rise from obscurity to a position among the world's great games. To recall its limited degree of importance in the days of a quarter of a century ago, and to turn from those memories to a conception of its present magnitude, is a trial in contrasts that almost numbs the brain. The difference is so great as to be indescribable. And it is a fine thing to know that golf is now the possession of the universe, and not the hobby of one race.

I have played in the United States, France, Germany, Belgium, Switzerland, and other countries. Everywhere the enthusiasm of the natives has been unmistakable. As an example of zeal, I can imagine nothing better than an incident that came under my notice at Le Touquet three years ago. Two Frenchmen arrived to engage in a match. They found the course covered with snow to the depth of several inches. They were informed that golf was out of the question, and so, indeed, the several British golfers staying at the hotel had decided finally and irrevocably. But the Frenchmen were not to be deterred. They obtained some snow-shoes, went out and played, and declared at the finish that they had enjoyed the round immensely. France is, I think, destined to be a great golfing country. Every year sees an increase in the number of players, and the clubs around Paris are now recruited principally from French people, whereas, a few years ago, they were supported almost entirely by British and American residents and visitors.

How vastly the standard of golf has improved in the United States since I was there in 1900 it is easy to tell from the form of several American amateurs, such as Mr W. J. Travis, Mr J. D. Travers, Mr E. M. Byers, Mr C. Evans, and Mr F. Herrshoff, who have visited this country during the past nine or ten years. The best native amateur whom I saw during my tour was Mr H. M. Harriman, and he was very good indeed. But many fine golfers have since arisen in the States, and none better than Mr Jerome Travers, whose style, I thought, was as good as any I had seen in a youthful player.

No doubt the character of golf-course architecture in America has altered a lot since I was there. At that time, it was often primitive and frequently startling in its originality. Asphalt teeing "grounds" were among the features that made me think deeply in the early stages of my visit. They seemed to offer uncomfortably big opportunities for breaking one's favourite driver, and they were responsible for an alteration in my methods, which clung to me for a long while after I returned to England. In order to avoid the danger of hitting the asphalt and so possibly smashing the club, I developed the habit of falling back at the moment of impact. I never tried a low shot against the wind from those teeing "grounds"; the beating down of the ball and consequent contact with the ground just in front of the tee would almost assuredly have meant a detached club-head and a shower of splinters. I always fell back as I made the stroke, thus causing the ball to fly high, and it took me a year or two to thoroughly purge my system of that habit when I settled down again to home golf. Those adamantine starting-places must have been fine things for the club-makers; I should imagine that an inexpert player who could not be sure of hitting the ball cleanly would need to take out about a dozen drivers in order to make sure of having one left intact for the shot to the home hole. But they were by no means good for the golf of a country, and I daresay they have long since ceased to exist.

Strange features of the forest courses were the teeing grounds built high up in trees. I encountered them on two occasions. They were valuable innovations, since they afforded a sight of the flag where, in the ordinary way, no such guide would have been obtainable. Wonderful creations were some of these courses made in the midst of pine forests. The player had to scale a long flight of steps in order to reach a platform erected in a tree. Then, feeling in this lofty position like a successful Parliamentary candidate who had come out on to the balcony to return thanks to the crowd below, he teed up and drove.

The golfer who makes an extensive tour in the States sees many varieties of the game. Or, at least, his experiences a dozen years ago were amazingly diverse.

I believe that great improvements have since been effected, and that some of the situations which I found enjoyable by reason of their total unexpectedness no longer present themselves to the seeker of novelty. The Americans have taken heart and soul to the game, and spared neither pains nor money to give to their links an appearance of orthodoxy and a worthy resemblance to British courses. One "green" on which I played consisted of nothing but loose sand from tee to hole, all the way round. It was like a huge hazard, miles long and hundreds of yards wide; it was as though one had committed some awful sin and been sentenced to spend a day in a bunker. No attempt had been made to grow so much as a blade of grass. A heavy roller had been put over the desert, some teeing grounds and holes had been made, and the enthusiasts had gone forth to pursue the game of golf. They were real enthusiasts. That self-same place has now, I understand, a very good course. Some of the sand putting greens in Florida were far truer than the great majority that consist of turf. In fact, they offered no possible excuse for the missing of a putt. A stroke of the right strength and direction was certain to go down. Baked by the sun, they were rolled, sprinkled with sand, and watered twice every day by the hand of man. The result was the production of a surface as true as that of any billiard table. They were treated early in the morning and again before the beginning of the afternoon round. Their thirst was considerable, and the watering was essential because when they became dry and the wind started to disturb the sand, they lost all their beauties. They resolved themselves into "greens" of grit. Still, when they were good, they were very good indeed.