of the olden time, it is well to think of what the triumvirate has done and still can do. Perhaps not many golfers, even among those who pay faithful attention to such matters, have a proper sense of the amazing record of these three men. I had occasion to analyse it lately, and I believe not in any other sport have the periods of three such champions coincided as they have done in golf during the last few years. It is a strange thing that the fates should have pitchforked Braid, Vardon, and Taylor into the arena at the same time, each man being so much above all outside the three. It is as if Ormonde, Donovan, and Flying Fox had been in the same race for the Derby. In one sense it seems a waste of exceptional talent on one period, to the possible impoverishment of another, but golf spectators and players should appreciate the advantage of the times in which they live, for it is unlikely that three such golfers will ever be to the fore at the same time again after these three have gone their way, and it is as certain as anything that a hundred years from now the golf world will speak reverently of the great triumvirate of the early days of the twentieth century. It will certainly be remembered that after this triumvirate had been established eleven years in each other’s company, they wound up a championship first, second, and third against the biggest field that had ever contested a championship, this being at Muirfield in 1906.

Three times in those eleven years the triumvirate collectively achieved the highest possible distinction in this way, the first being in 1900, which was Taylor’s year, the second in 1901, when Braid won, and the third in 1906, when Braid was again successful. Taylor was the first of the three to show activity, and he won the championship in 1894 and 1895. Not until 1896 was the triumvirate definitely constituted, as it were, by the whole three, Vardon, Taylor, and Braid appearing in the championship at the same time. In that year Vardon finished first, Taylor second, and Braid sixth. In the following year Braid, in the second place in the lists, was the foremost man of the three. Then there was a remarkable run, for the triumvirate found the winner in seven of the next nine years. Vardon scored twice running to begin with; then Taylor and Braid; in 1902 Vardon and Braid tied for second place; the next year Vardon was first again; Taylor and Braid tied for second position in 1904, and this was followed by two championships for Braid. Only three times in eleven years did the triumvirate let the championship go out of their small circle, and it may be mentioned that the three men who beat them on these respective occasions were Mr. Hilton in 1897, Herd in 1902, and Jack White in 1904.

Adding up the records of positions and scores of all golfers who took part in these championship competitions when the triumvirate did, and making, so to speak, one long championship of it, the triumvirate lead the way, and the rest—the very best of them—are absolutely tailed off. The scores registered in the championships, added up, afford the following result: Harry Vardon, 3426; James Braid, 3446; J. H. Taylor, 3454. Herd fittingly comes fourth with 3527, and then there is an enormous gap between him and the fifth man. Taylor would, of course, be in a different position if we counted in the two early championships that he won, and let it be said for Taylor that, including this year of 1907, he has been second for the championship four times in succession and five in all—a magnificent record such as stamps him as the most brilliantly consistent champion of all time. But it is a heartbreaking record for Taylor all the same, and this great and popular player has all golfers’ sympathy.

Golfers are not like the brooks of poets; they cannot go on for ever. We shall look to see the great men of to-day playing fine golf in twenty years from now, and upon occasion they will play such rounds as will make us say, “That was just as in the olden time!” But their average of merit must diminish, and probably all the premier three, or at least two of them, have passed the high-water mark of their ability and their tide of supremacy is receding. Who, then, is to succeed them? For years past we have been looking for likely and worthy successors. There are many fine golfers on the links, and occasionally great things are prophesied of some of them; but disappointment almost invariably follows. The times do not seem to be breeding any more Vardons, Taylors, or Braids. A triumvirate of the future is not yet in the making. Our grandparents and other good people constantly tell us that there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, and it might seem a foolish thing to suggest that we shall never again have such a band of supreme artists at the game as those whose works we enjoy witnessing in these days. But are not the chances heavily against there being again in our time simultaneously three more men of such outstanding ability as these three, each one of whom would be the sole man of his generation if it were not for the other two? Cricket did not produce three Graces at the same time; billiards had only one Roberts. You could not imagine three Graces and three Roberts. But we have had them in golf in late years.

One is inclined to think that the fact is that the men who are great to-day were trained in a severer and more heroic school than their successors will be, and they had each a spark of genius which the conditions of the time fanned into the full flame of glory. We cannot expect three more of them to come along at the same time; but we might expect and do want one more, someone who shall be an acknowledged chief of the game, someone whom we shall be glad to see win the championship, as we cannot be so glad when it is won by a golfer than whom there is no one more unlikely ever to win it again. I am no believer in these things going in a round of comparative mediocrity. What seems to be the matter with most modern aspirants is that they have not that touch of genius which is so evidently possessed by the men who have been making golfing history during the past decade. They may drive well, play their irons well, putt well, and they may do many grand holes and accomplish numerous brilliant rounds, breaking many records. At times they may beat the champions and past champions. But they are not the same golfers. Watch them play a round and you can see the difference. They have not the same genius. They are merely ordinary human golfers, though good ones at that; they are palpably suffering too much from mere human weakness. You see them trying hard, trying so very hard. The triumvirate do not seem to try. It is just there. There is one of them who tries less than any golfer who has ever been born, and he does more when trying less than those others trying hard. Yes, it is just there—the genius for the game.

VIII

We may set it down with some conviction that William Shakespeare was a born golfer. It does not matter that golf was as rare in the glorious days in which he lived as are eagles in twentieth-century Britain. We do not say that he played golf, had seen it played, or had ever heard of it. So far as we are aware, there is no evidence to support any such propositions. Yet he was a born golfer, and if the game had come his way he would have played it, and one doubts not that he would also have excelled in it; so that it is well that it was after his time, or England would not have been proud in the possession of such work of his as is the envy of all other nations. For, of all the classic writers whose work we read, there is none who gives such evidence in almost every line of it that he was